


you're too good to be all mine

by TheMipstaz



Series: There's a Light in the Dark [2]
Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Set It Up (2018) Fusion, F/M, M/M, established Eleanor Calder/Louis Tomlinson, minor Niall Horan/Hailee Steinfeld, seeing blind AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: “You want us toParent Trapour bosses?”“They don’t need to get married or anything mad,” Harry reasons like this is a perfectly logical plan that Louis is trying to blow out of proportion. “Just, like, I want to get home at a decent hour to wank and hopefully not wake up before the sun.” He smacks his lips thoughtfully and adds, “I will also settle for Cyrano-ing them.”“What the hell is that?”“It’s, like,” Harry mumbles, eyelashes fluttering, “you know, when a nerdy guy helps a handsome guy date the girl that he loves by telling him what to say and what to do.”“That’s a shitty trope,” Louis grouses. “If the handsome lad can’t date the girl by being himself, then they shouldn’t be together, and she should get with the nerdy one.”“Not the point.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this was born from watching "Set It Up" on Netflix last summer and desperately wanting to see Nick as Pete Davidson's character, aka my fav character from the movie. Every single line was golden and made me laugh for 500 years. I didn't mean for this to become a huge mess of Elounor (and Nailee) feels, but here we are. 
> 
> And of course the hugest, most grateful, love-filled shoutout to [Skye](https://twistofpayne.tumblr.com) for being my endless cheerleader, proofreader, and all around A++ friend for listening to me moan and groan about this for actual ages. Definitely would've given up halfway through without you. 
> 
> Everything is written except the epilogue, so hopefully this will update every week and the ending will be finished in time to keep up with that schedule. Fingers crossed. 
> 
> Title from [Seeing Blind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKbl19xeSIQ).

“And so,” Harry concludes, gazing around at the sea of people gathered around him and drinking in the rapt eyes glued to his uncontrollable grin and sparkling champagne glass, “it is with great poignancy and regret that I declare the death of Niall’s bachelorhood. Like a proper _Panic! At the Disco_ record.”

“I’m not married yet,” Niall protests while Hailee giggles into his shoulder.

But Harry can barely hear him over the LIC’s drunken whoops and Ed’s hideous yowling cat calls, so Harry graciously ignores his engaged best friend. He waits for Bressie to steady Laura so she doesn’t pitch off the side of the hotel rooftop they’ve rented out for the party. Then he lifts his glass to the fairy lights strung above their heads.

“But it is with great honor and jubilance that I give Haiz permission to take Niall’s hand in marriage.” Harry does his best to keep a straight face as Niall scowls.

Of course, Hailee also keeps a mock serious face and nods along solemnly because Harry can always count on her to roll with his weird sense of humor. From the beginning, she’s been his partner in crime when it came to co-planning Niall’s surprise 24th birthday party and watching Niall’s boring golf programs when Harry spent too many hours in the office. Harry never thought Niall could look happier than when he had a guitar in his hands until he saw Niall with her. The way her eyes go soft around the edges when Niall gets on about why avocados have ruined breakfast, Harry knows unequivocally that she’ll love Niall till death do they part.

Swallowing around the abrupt lump in his throat, Harry looks at his best friend and the girl who has and will continue to bring him so much joy. And Harry thinks to himself, _You chose a good one, Nialler._ “To Niall and Hailee!” Their friends and family echo the toast with gusto, and the champagne bubbles pleasantly on Harry’s tongue.

Later, the happy couple finds Harry in the middle of regaling Hailee’s mother with the time he and Mitch had convinced Niall that left-handed people were statistically more likely to be hit by a car. “He wouldn’t even _look_ at a zebra crossing for weeks,” Harry cackles. “Haiz thought he had developed a fear of stripes and tried to throw out a third of my wardrobe.”

“Still better than a fear of feckin’ spoons,” Niall interjects.

Harry gives him a wounded expression. “You’re not allowed to say that about my boss. Only I’m allowed to say that about my boss. He told me that in confidence.”

“Your employer is afraid of, er,” Mrs. Steinfeld’s eyebrows draw together in bemusement, “spoons?”

“It’s a long story,” Hailee dismisses with a wave of her hand. “C’mon, Mom, I want to introduce you to Poof.” She kisses Niall on the cheek and leads her mom away.

Niall gazes after her with sappy eyes and an involuntary grin until Harry can’t take it anymore and pinches his side. “Hey, eyes over here. It’s your bloody engagement party; you’ll have plenty of time to be disgusting with your fiancée later. Years, even, if you play your cards right.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Niall grins, shaking his head a little. “It’s just mad, innit? She’s my _fiancée_.” He marvels over the word, all dewey-eyed and awed like when Harry got him a signed copy of Tiger Woods’ book for Christmas. “How the hell did I get that lucky?” He looks at Harry like he might have an answer.

Harry does know, of course. He knows that Hailee looks at Niall and sees the same thing he does: a humble soul brimming with kindness, always eager to leave the world better than he found it, with gentle hands that hold loved ones close and a smile that could stop wars, all wrapped in a comfy jumper that coordinates with the day of the week. But it’s easier to shrug than say all that. “Must be the eyes. Ladies can never resist blue eyes.”

“And lads can never resist green,” counters Niall with a wink.

“Wish that worked on Liam,” Harry sighs forlornly. “I don’t think there’s anything in the whole universe that could distract him from his folders and portfolios, my amazing eyes be damned.”

Niall wrinkles his nose. “I thought we had a strict no shop talk rule for tonight.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“Well, we shouldn’t have to talk about it, Haz,” Niall huffs in exasperation. “It should just be an unspoken thing seeing as it’s my engagement party. God knows I hear enough about Liam bloody Payne whenever we’re at home. Although, that’s when you get home at all.”

“Niall,” Harry warns in an exhausted voice. It’s an old, cyclical argument that instantly makes Harry feel he’s aged thirty years. By now, he knows it’s better for everyone involved if he stymies the conversation early.

After they graduated uni, Harry’ stepfather landed him an interim placeholder job as a glorified secretary while Harry figured out what to do with his accounting degree and what he wanted out of life. It was supposed to be a year, two tops, as a plebeian at First Time Records to get Harry on his feet. But then, Robin died. And suddenly, the prospect of leaving his crap job felt less like breaking free than it felt like doing a disservice to the man who raised him, taught him how to ride a bike, and looked out for him like Harry was his own son. As a result, Harry’s stay at the recording label stretched on with no end in sight. During those years, he and Niall have fought about Harry’s work schedule so often that Harry could have this dispute in his sleep.

Right on cue, Niall hisses, “He works you like a dog, Harry. Doesn’t that bother you, getting four hours of sleep every night? That’s less than when we were in school. The only reason you had tonight off is because his sister is in town and you took it upon yourself to pencil in dinner. Three quarters of the people here,” Niall gestures at the guests milling about, “haven’t seen you in months, maybe years. I fucking live with you, and even I barely see you unless it’s you passed out on the couch because you were too tired to make it to your room.

“In fact,” Harry lets Niall keep his momentum because Niall steamrolls over any of Harry’s protests this early into the spiel anyway, “who the fuck gets to the office every day at six, which means you have to get there at half five, and doesn’t leave until midnight? You serve a work-obsessed lunatic, and you deserve better than that.”

When Niall finally takes his regularly scheduled breathing break, nostrils flaring, Harry reels off his own part of their back-and-forth. “His work ethic’s a bit over the top, but Liam’s a good person. He knows every employee’s name, even the unpaid interns, and just last week he had me send over a gift basket for Anton’s baby shower.”

“That doesn’t make it right, Haz.” Niall has now got to his intense, concerned phase. This is always the hardest bit, to watch Niall’s eyes darken with worry and occasionally bat away his hands if he tries to chew on his cuticles.

“It pays the bills,” Harry says bracingly.

“You deserve the occasional weekend off and holidays and not to be on call 24/7. You’re going to miss things if you keep up at this.”

“What, like last week’s Derby match?” Harry tries a joking tone but winces when it falls flat.

Niall gives him an unimpressed look, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, like Fionn’s promotion and Shawn’s gig at Bressie’s pub and,” Niall bites his lips, “and Theo’s birthday.”

Harry feels the breath punch out of him. “I missed Theo’s birthday?” He shakes his head. “No, no way. Theo doesn’t turn three until—” Harry almost feels dizzy from lack of oxygen when he mumbles, “Until July.” He looks at Niall helplessly. “It’s September.”

“He turned four two months ago,” Niall says, not unkindly. “Greg and Denise threw him a superhero themed birthday party.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry demands, hurt clawing up his throat and making it hard to spit out the words.

“I tried,” Niall snaps. “I tried to remind you it was coming up, and then Liam called you and you ran out the door and I didn’t see you until two days later.”

Harry wants to retort with something snappy to wipe the hard look off Niall’s face. But he can’t because he doesn’t remember that particular night. That’s what makes his chest ache the most, the fact that Harry can’t pinpoint which incident Niall is referring to because Liam always calls him on weekends—for meals, to come file away last quarter’s revenue spreadsheets that Liam’s drawn up, to look over a new prospective artist that A&R found.

Niall takes in Harry’s blank face. He deflates. “That’s what I thought. You don’t even remember, do you?”

“I—no,” Harry admits, shame curdling in his gut.

“I can’t help but feel you’re slipping away from us,” Niall confesses in a voice so heavy Harry wonders how his bum knee doesn’t buckle under the weight.

“I’m not,” Harry whispers. At Niall’s disbelieving eyebrow raise, Harry repeats fiercely, “I’m _not_.” He steps forward to wrap Niall up in a tight hug like he can impress his own ferocious belief into Niall’s skin.

But before he can do more than raise his arms, his mobile goes off in his back pocket. Britney spears sings to him, “You better work, bitch,” twice, but it’s not nearly as funny as when Niall first set the ringtone as a joke. Harry struggles to fumble his phone out. He has never been less pleased to Liam’s name light up on the screen, and Liam once rang him mid-shag.

Niall’s impassive, resigned face looks more devastating to Harry than if he had broken down into tears or screamed awful things that Harry knows he deserves. It feels an awful lot like Niall has given up.

“I—” Harry has no idea how he’s meant to finish his sentence, but it doesn’t matter because Niall cuts him off.

“Just go.”

“Niall,” Harry pleads even as his heart threatens to pound out of his chest because how many times has it rung now? He can’t let it go to voicemail, but he also can’t let Niall walk away because he might not come back this time. “Niall, please, I have to take this, but—”

Niall doesn’t bother to hear his sorry excuse. He gives Harry one last hard look, then turns on his heel.

And Harry can’t put off the inevitable anymore. He can’t risk losing the only thing he has left to cling to. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Hi, Mr. Payne.”

“Hello, Harry. I know it’s your evening off, but I’ve just got off the phone with Mr. Cowell, and we’re a go for Noah Kahan’s sophomore album. I’m going to need you to come in right away to get started on the paperwork for that. The legal department’s already sent over a contract draft to look over.”

“Yes, Mr. Payne,” Harry sighs, turning around to look for the exit and plan an escape route that doesn’t bring him anywhere near Niall or Hailee. He doesn’t think he could bear to see their disappointed, if unsurprised, faces. “Right away, sir.”

* * *

Louis Tomlinson does not put up with anyone’s shit. When he still attended secondary school, his little sisters never weaseled out of naptime, doing their homework, or eating their brussel sprouts when his mum left him in charge. This happened fairly often because their mum often had to work long hours to keep up with rent and put enough food on the table for seven growing kids. More than once he got suspended from school and fired from jobs because he couldn’t hold his tongue around moody teenagers and bratty customers.

As a result, his mum puffs with pride whenever it comes up that Louis’ held down his current job for a few years now. However, she can’t quite comprehend how he’s accomplished that because as a personal assistant, Louis does nothing but put up with shit. Zayn Malik’s shit, to be specific.

It’s not the most glamorous job Louis’ ever had. Zayn has the worst sleep schedule Louis’ ever seen, which includes Louis’ roommate, who DJs for London’s most notorious gay bars and occasionally doesn’t come home until after Louis has left for the office. Sometimes Grimmy comes back early enough to tell Louis he has his trousers on backwards, and Louis deigns to think he could have shared a flat with someone worse. And sometimes Louis catches Grimmy’s latest boy toy stealing sips of his coffee, and Louis remembers that Grimmy is the actual worst.

“At least I don’t wipe the arse of an adult baby,” Nick likes to snark back when Louis complains about the men Nick brings back from his night clubs.

Then Louis threatens a wet willy until Nick flees the room cackling because resorting to physical violence is easier than explaining that no, his boss is not an adult baby, thank you very much.

His boss is, however, the sole cause of Louis’ current predicament: apologizing profusely to his angel of a girlfriend for having to bail on their anniversary dinner. Again. Louis has never felt more chagrined to have the millionaire founder of _Zap!_ arts magazine blowing up his mobile. On the bright side, this year they got all the way through the appetizers before Louis’ phone began buzzing with texts.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis repeats, slipping out of the restaurant booth to peck her on the cheek. “I’m so sorry, love, but it’s Zayn. You know how he gets around this time of year when the anniversary of the break up is coming up.” As Zayn’s assistant, Louis fields a constant barrage of emails and phone calls and sets reminders in Zayn’s phone so he eats at least two meals per day. But, most importantly, he fends off the occasional call from Zayn’s almost ex-wife before she sends Zayn spiraling into a shitstorm mood.

“Louis,” Eleanor pleads even though after all these years, she knows it’s futile, “we’ve already ordered. Can’t it wait? Just an hour?” She reaches for his hand, eyes big and lips pouty.

And there’s nothing Louis wants to do more than relent for once, sit back down, and enjoy this evening with the girl of his dreams. The girl who’s stuck beside him when he’s been between jobs and had to crash at her place, who holds him together when Zayn overloads him with work, who looks at him and doesn’t see a hopeless kid with no uni degree and no future. The girl who deserves more than a shitty boyfriend who can’t even wine and dine her on their anniversary.

Louis wants to do right by Eleanor, but instead he brings her hand to his lips for a tender kiss. He lingers over the glittery engagement ring on her finger, rubs an apologetic thumb over the smooth metal.

“I’m so sorry, El,” he says again like a broken record. There’s a metaphor about her finally throwing him in the rubbish bin floating around that Louis doesn’t want to think about too hard.

She sighs, but tries to smile anyway. “Will I see you later tonight?”

“I hope so. I’ll text you.”

“If not, me and Grimmy can catch up on _Love Island_ anyway.” Eleanor grins at Louis’ disgruntled expression.

“Without me?” He whines.

“Sorry,” she says without remorse. “If we waited around for you, we’d never finish.”

Although offhand, the comment stings. It reminds Louis of how many hours he spends at the office instead of cuddled up with his girlfriend on the sofa watching trashy reality programs. “Yeah,” Louis mumbles. “No, you’re right. Have a good night in. I’ll try to get back as soon as I can.”

“I love you.” Eleanor leans in for a sweet kiss, and Louis almost can’t tear himself away to slap down enough notes to cover their aborted meal.

Twenty minutes later finds Louis still contemplating the unfortunate fact that his gay roommate spends more time with his gorgeous girlfriend that he does. Louis scowls ferociously at the thought of Eleanor and Nick throwing popcorn and yelling at the telly together.

“Rough night?”

Louis blinks and looks over at the man sitting next to him on the tube. “Something like that,” Louis mutters, not particularly interested in starting up a conversation with a stranger.

“I get it.” The man slouches further in his seat, and Louis’ own spine twinges in sympathy. “I’ve just had to bail on my best mate’s engagement party.”

“Not a very best mate thing to do.” It slips out before Louis can help it.

But the stranger just chuckles. “Yeah, I suppose not. But when my boss says jump, I say, ‘How high?’ Or, in this case, he says ‘Come into work at nine at night on a Saturday,’ and I say, ‘Sure, not like I was doing anything important.’ Gotta love being a personal assistant.”

Louis snorts. “Join the club. My boss just texted me in the middle of dinner with me girlfriend.”

“You can’t reschedule?”

“We have. Three times now,” Louis huffs. “Now she’s going to spend our anniversary drinking cheap box wine and watching telly with my flatmate.”

Louis gets a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “At least you still had all your clothes on when you got called in.”

Louis’ eyes go wide. “You did not.”

“Did so,” comes the insistent reply. “I had a fit bloke in my bed, and I had left my mobile on the nightstand. It went off, and I almost came looking at a picture of my boss’ face.” He gives a great big shudder.

And that’s how Louis meets Harry Styles, sat on the crowded tube exchanging increasingly ludicrous stories about their respective employers. Louis counters Harry once finding his boss falling asleep while running on the treadmill with the time Zayn smoked out his office an hour before a crucial meeting with two potential investors. He makes a face when Harry explains his boss abhors technology and once spent three months trying to convert everything to paper. “He’s worse than my nan. I had to either print out his emails or read them aloud to him until he finally gave up,” Harry exclaims. In return, Harry pats his cheek consolingly when Louis bemoans the upcoming collaboration between _Zap!_ and Zayn’s ex. Unfortunately, Perrie’s renowned status as an acclaimed art critic promises boosted ratings and new readers that the magazine can’t afford to pass over. It’s how she and Zayn met, running in similar circles, but now it leads to crackling tension whenever they cross paths.

“He gets real high strung whenever she’s around,” Louis grimaces. “Sleeps less, barely eats, smokes more. If I haven’t got any gray hairs by the end of it, I’ll consider it a victory.”

“This is my stop,” Harry says regretfully as the carriage doors open.

Louis startles. “Mine too.”

Harry beams. “Funny coincidence, that.” They get off together and make their way to street level. “Where’re you off to now?”

“I’m in that high-rise off the A1.”

When Harry nods towards the building, Louis stumbles to a halt. “Me too. Are you having me on?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

Louis starts walking again—Zayn needs his caffeine, after all—but his mind starts churning with thoughts unrelated to how many espresso shots he dares let Zayn have tonight. A record label, Harry mentioned he worked for, which wouldn’t really feel out of place in Islington. And Louis’ building really does have quite a lot of floors.

“I work for FT Records,” Harry continues. That does ring a bell for Louis, who can vaguely picture a logo that he might’ve seen once or twice on his way up to his floor.

“Huh,” Louis says. “I work for _Zap!_.”

Harry’s eyebrows arc up. “Zayn Malik’s magazine?” He whistles low. “No wonder you’re going mad.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis asks, maybe snippier than the situation warrants. But just because he spent a tube ride and a couple blocks complaining about Zayn doesn’t mean other people get to do it.

Harry shrugs noncommittally. “Just that I’ve heard what people say about him, not just you. Based on what you said, I should’ve known it was him, really.”

Zayn Malik doesn’t boast the most flattering reputation, but he has just had a hard time of it all. It’s part of why Louis can stand being at the beck and call of his insomnia-riddled boss. Because for all that Zayn tends to call Louis in at three in the morning when he’s in some sort of zen writing mood that requires coffee and not leaving his office, Louis knows Zayn has the substance to back up his outrageous requests.

Even though Zayn’s only really broken onto the scene several years ago—first with a multimedia showing that made headlines for weeks, then a critique op-ed that broke down why people should take street art seriously—Louis knows people still give Zayn shit. Someone broke into his second gallery the night before the show and tore everything down. They smashed the glass frames, torched his metal sculptures, and scratched slurs into the walls. To top it off, the police conveniently lost the security tapes. Yet, instead of crumbling to his knees under the weight of the sheer hatred of strangers, Zayn kept the show date. He unlocked the shattered glass doors, invited viewers in, and cordially shook the hand of everyone who stepped into the wreckage.

In recent years, Zayn has turned more towards writing articles about up-and-comers, artists of color who never got their chance, and the occasional indie movie review. This new direction led to Zayn establishing _Zap!_. In spite of Louis spending most of his waking hours complaining about his job, he doesn’t have a single problem tearing Harry a new one for his uppity attitude and snide remarks.

“Yeah because Liam Payne is such a delight,” Louis snaps. “Please do tell me when you finally manage to get that stick out of his arse.” He doesn’t know why he feels so irritated at Harry for repeating what everyone has always said about Zayn.

Maybe it’s because most people don’t know that every year on his birthday, Zayn donates an exorbitant amount under an alias to an organization he established to help homeless queer youth in Bradford. They don’t know there’s more to Zayn Malik than the tabloid headlines he made after the rumors he broke up with Perrie over text or his penchant for walking out of interviews halfway through. Granted, those weren’t his brightest points, but he consists of more than his mistakes.

Or maybe Louis just feels bitterly disappointed that Harry can’t see underneath the muck everyone has dragged Zayn through.

“Hey, Liam’s a good person,” Harry defends. “He’s just, like, lost his way a bit. But he has good intentions.”

“So has Zayn,” Louis says firmly. “He just needs someone to keep him on track, give him a bit of structure to his life. Otherwise, he falls to bits and calls me in at,” Louis checks his watch, “8.47.”

Harry snorts. “I should let Liam at him. Liam _thrives_ on regularity. Weekly meal prep, gym workout routines, you name it. He has me plan his day out to the quarter-hour. It used to be every ten minutes, but I wore him down. He even schedules his bathroom breaks, Louis. How can you even do that? When you gotta go, you gotta go. The bladder recognizes no master.”

“I bet his shits are all equal size,” Louis says in wonderment.

Harry lets out a horrific honking laugh and hits at Louis’ shoulder. “I’m serious!”

“So am I,” Louis grins back, jabbing his finger into Harry’s side. “You said he’s a very regular lad.”

“I just wish he had someone to let loose around sometimes,” Harry admits, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Someday he’s gonna be so tense he’s just gonna snap in two, like a biscuit. Or a carrot stick.”

Not exactly the simile Louis would’ve used, but okay. “You should send him over to Zayn’s office sometime to get some sativa in him. That oughta help. Zayn’s making six figures; I bet he has the good shit.”

Harry pretends to make a note with an imaginary pencil and pad. “Right, Mr. Payne,” Harry affects his most strict, business-like tone, “11.30 on Tuesday you’ve got your daily poo break, and at 11.45 it says you’re getting fucked up with the editor-in-chief of _Zap!_. Mr. Malik wants to know if you’re bringing your own bong.”

Louis cackles and plays along. “And after you’ve laid about for a bit, Mr. Malik, you’re to take Mr. Payne out for kebabs—”

“And chips.”

“And chips,” Louis agrees, “and let your poor assistants have the rest of the day off.”

“That’s the dream,” Harry sighs wistfully. They finally approach the front doors of the office, and Harry holds one open for Louis to go in.

“Well,” Harry drags out the word as he loiters in front of the first set of lifts that go up to the first couple dozen floors, “this is me.”

Louis scuffs at the sleek marble floors with one shoe and runs a hand through his hair. “It was good to meet you, Harry. You made this night less awful than it could’ve been. A lot less.”

Harry beams, and Louis feels oddly charmed by his pleased dimples. “Well, I might dare say that you, Louis Tomlinson, have made this one of the best trips into work I’ve ever had. Good luck tonight. I hope you make it back to Eleanor before she gets the episode where Samira leaves the villa. My mate Mitch nearly had a meltdown.”

“Oi, no spoilers,” Louis barks.

“Oops?”

Louis grumps, “I hope Niall never forgives you.”

Harry seems to know that Louis doesn’t mean it because his dimples make one last appearance before the lift doors ding shut.

Despite working in the same office building, Louis doesn’t see hide nor hair of Harry until two weeks later. Though, maybe it shouldn’t come as such a surprise seeing as they’ve apparently spent years in the same workplace without seeing each other before.

But when Louis does finally glimpse Harry again, he can’t help the automatic, “You look like shit,” that slips out of his mouth.

Harry doesn’t even have the energy to glare at him, just yawns so widely Louis can see his uvula and grunts, “You don’t exactly look like a GQ model either.”

“Being stuck in the office at two in the morning for the third time this week tends to do that to a guy,” Louis shrugs. He tries to ignore how every time he blinks it gets harder to lift his eyelids open again.

“Try,” Harry yawns again, “four times this week.” He settles into a spare chair and rolls it towards Louis’ desk.

“What’re you even doing on this floor?” Louis asks, shifting to face Harry and not even pretending to look at his spreadsheets anymore.

“Liam’s got into a writing mood.” Harry slumps forward and props his head up with an elbow on Louis’ desk. His eyes flutter shut as he mumbles, “He’ll be busy for hours. Thought I’d come down and see if you were around.” One green eye peeks opens languidly. “What’s Zayn got you doing?”

“Nothing right now. He’s listening to Drake and prepping for our upcoming Edwards piece.” Louis rubs at the bridge of his nose. He can feel the beginnings of a migraine just thinking about the forthcoming months of strained meetings and yelling matches.

“Is the offer still on the table? I wouldn’t mind getting Liam stoned out of his mind if it meant I got to sleep more than five hours.”

Louis laughs, but stops at Harry’s put out expression. “You’re not serious.”

“Am so,” Harry pouts. “Serious as these bags, Louis.” He points for emphasis like Louis could miss the dark bruising under his eyes. “I could check these in at Heathrow.”

Louis shakes his head. “Look, the sleep deprivation’s getting to you. Happens to the best of us. I think I’ve got a blanket around here somewhere. You should sneak in a quick kip before Liam runs out of coffee or sommat.” He gets up and cracks his back. It would feel a lot more satisfying if Louis had done it at home about to roll into bed, preferably with Eleanor. Sighing wistfully at the thought, he walks to the tiny storage closet to pull out his emergency cot.

Harry protests, but Louis has six younger siblings. He knows how to put someone down when they’re knackered but refuse to admit it. Harry has nothing on the twins. In the end, he wrangles Harry into squeezing onto the cramped cot. Once his head hits the makeshift pillow of Louis’ balled up jacket, Harry’s eyes droop into sleepy slits.

“Okay, maybe the weed thing is a bit much,” Harry concedes in a heavy voice, words already slurring.

Louis hums without really listening and gently pushes some of his curls off his face. He briefly wonders how Harry can hold a professional job with his mess of a haircut.

“But you know what’s more stress-relieving than the devil’s lettuce?”

Louis snorts. “What?”

“Sex.”

“You are not pimping me out so we can get regular hours,” Louis deadpans. He adds as an afterthought, “As if they could afford this arse.”

“Not you, twat.” Harry’s sleepy voice sounds about as intimidating as a mewling kitten. “I mean, like, each other.”

“You want us to _Parent Trap_ our bosses?”

“They don’t need to get married or anything mad,” Harry reasons like this is a perfectly logical plan that Louis is trying to blow out of proportion. “Just, like, I want to get home at a decent hour to wank and hopefully not wake up before the sun.” He smacks his lips thoughtfully and adds, “I will also settle for Cyrano-ing them.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s, like,” Harry mumbles, eyelashes fluttering, “you know, when a nerdy guy helps a handsome guy date the girl that he loves by telling him what to say and what to do.”

“That’s a shitty trope,” Louis grouses. “If the handsome lad can’t date the girl by being himself, then they shouldn’t be together, and she should get with the nerdy one.”

“Not the point.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Go to sleep, Styles. You’ve lost it.”

Except, hours later, when Louis has inched open his flat door, wincing at the horrendous creak it lets out anyway, he can’t help but think about what Harry said. Louis tiptoes past the telly and spies the crumpled nest of blankets on the sofa, where Eleanor and Nick probably cuddled up with tea after dinner, where Eleanor might’ve sat for hours waiting in vain for him to get home until Nick ushered her to bed with a soft, “C’mon, El bell, it’s late.” Louis sneaks into the loo to wash up and change out of his work clothes before creeping past Nick’s closed door to slip into his own room.

His heart does something complicated in his chest when he sees Eleanor curled up on his side of the mattress, nose pressed to the pillowcase in a way that’s sure to leave creases on her face tomorrow. He can’t help but kneel at the bedside. He brings up a reverent hand to brush her fringe away from her sweet face.

Her eyes flicker open, a little dazed. “Lou?” Her hand finds his wrist, grip sleep-soft in that way it only is right after waking.

“Hi, love,” he whispers back. His knees are starting to ache on the hardwood, but he doesn’t want to move and possibly miss a moment of Eleanor dragging her fingertips against the inside of his wrist. With every somnolent breath, the sheets draped over her body rise and fall in a rhythm Louis never wants to forget.

“Did you just get home?” Her voice rasps pleasantly against his ears. “What time is it?”

“Late.” Louis bites his tongue. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s okay,” she mumbles. “I missed you.” She pulls his hand close to press to her bare chest where the neckline of one of Louis’ old shirts swoops down, then cuddles his palm to her cheek. Louis basks in the steadiness of first her pulse, then her puffing breaths. “Me and Grim did face masks and watched _X Factor_. Nick threw kettle corn at the telly and pretended to be a judge,” she murmurs to his knuckles, eyes slipped closed again.

Louis brings her hand to his lips, peppering kisses across her slender fingers and delicate wrist bone. Then he pulls away to skirt around to the other side of the bed, sliding under the covers to press up behind her. She sighs when his hands find her belly, their knees slotting together in an angle that should feel more familiar.

He whispers, “Sounds lovely,” into the back of her neck. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Her hands find his under the blankets, weaving together. “I’m sorry too.” She stays quiet so long that Louis thinks she’s nodded off. Just when he nestles more comfortably against her, Eleanor breathes out, “This is so exhausting.”

He squeezes his eyes shut against how weary she sounds. “I know, love. It won’t always be like this,” he promises without thinking, without considering if it’s true or not.

Eleanor doesn’t respond.

Louis toys with his phone all the next day. It burns a hole in his back pocket while he steeps Zayn’s tea and briefs him on his agenda for the day. He glares at it during his lunch break until Zayn yells for more wasabi for his sushi. But Louis doesn’t break until nearly half nine that night when Zayn sends him out for the first of many caffeine runs because 10PM Zayn likes hazelnut macchiatos with a pump and a half of espresso, but 11PM Zayn grows a taste for extra hot mochas with light whip, while midnight Zayn starts to tone down the caffeine with an appalling tea-to-milk ratio.

The relay of coffee and tea runs is pretty standard for Louis when Zayn has a longer-term assignment coming up. What tips the scales is the text his phone beeps with while Louis returns to the office with Zayn’s drink cradled securely in his arms.

**Sorry about last night. I know it’s not your fault you’re working so hard. Just forget I said anything. Love you!**

And Louis feels like the absolute worst scum on the planet, probably because he is. That’s the only way to explain why Eleanor feels the need to apologize for Louis’ shit schedule and perpetual absence despite her endless patience.

So Louis does the only thing he can: scrolls through his contacts until he finds the sparkle and banana emojis.

“Hello. Styles Photography-Inspired Bakery. You take ‘em, we bake ‘em. How can I help you?”

“Very funny, Harry.”

“I thought so too.”

“So,” Louis chews on his lower lip, “about Plan Sativa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post [here](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/181212775800/youre-too-good-to-be-all-mine-chapters-15-wc)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Plan Sativa sets into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought about an intense Liam and Perrie friendship? Me neither until this fic. Merry Christmas and happy holidays!

“Perrie!”

“Liam! How’s my favorite label exec?”

“Fine, fine. Busy, but what else is new?”

“If you said you weren’t drowning yourself in work, I’d be worried,” laughs Perrie. “Probably have to dial 999 and tell them my best mate’s been kidnapped and cloned.”

“Ha ha.” Liam rolls his eyes even though she can’t see over the phone. “I can’t wait to see Hatchi’s face when it gets out that I’ve at last usurped his position as your best mate.”

Perrie lets out a dramatic gasp. “Liam Payne, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, just you wait until I see you in person,” Perrie giggles.

Liam glances at his watch and nearly blinds himself when the sunlight slanting through the window refracts off the crystal face. Blinking the spots out of his vision, he says, “Right, our meeting’s in ten. Do you want anything to drink? I can have coffee or tea or something brought up.”

“Tea would be great, but no hurry. I’ve got to run an errand before I see you. Just some minor rearrangements with my next big project.”

“Can you give anything away?”

“It’s a joint thing with _Zap!_. Not exactly thrilled,” Liam can hear the annoyance edging her tone, “but on the bright side, you and I get to be neighbors for the next couple months. Well, if ten floors apart counts as neighbors.”

“ _Zap!_? Liam frowns. He can vaguely recall Harry mentioning it once or twice, maybe showing him a spread on a sleek-looking website. Something about them wanting a quick write-up on First Time’s newest girl group that Liam had greenlit and instantly forgotten about. “That a music mag?”

“It’s more of art-focused journalism, but yeah, they squeeze in some music sometimes. Figures you’d only know about that subdivision of it.”

“What floor will you be on? I could meet you up there and walk you down to mine.”

“You really don’t have to, Liam. It’s not a big deal.”

Liam pouts. “Anyone who’s cutting into my Pez time is a big deal.”

She chuckles. “Alright, weirdo. Thirty-third floor.”

“Great. I’ll see you in a mo.”

When Liam steps out of the second lift—apparently the one he takes to his own office doesn’t go up high enough. Who decided that was a good idea?—he follows Perrie’s directions down the hall in search of her boardroom.

Framed magazine covers line the walls in neat rows. Most of the people gracing the glossy pages don’t look familiar, but Liam doesn’t know much about the art world. Or the fashion sphere either apparently because is that neon pink fanny pack hung around that person’s neck?

Liam is so preoccupied with an abhorrent clash of jacquard and paisley print in the next frame that he doesn’t see the man carefully shuffling out of a room with three cups cradled in his hands until it’s too late. By then, the iced coffees have already soaked through Liam’s shirt and slacks and puddled on the floor.

“Oh, fuck, sorry, mate, I—” The man finally gets a good look at Liam, and his eyes widen an alarming amount. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Mr. Payne. Here, let me get you a paper towel. Please don’t get me fired.” It comes out in a jumble, like all the air has left his lungs and instead gone into bulging out his terrified eyes.

Liam gets tugged down a hall that ends in a receptionist desk sitting outside a frosted-glass-walled office. Interns dash about in varying degrees of anxiety. The man hurries behind the desk and tugs open a couple drawers, muttering about how he must have takeaway napkins somewhere and maybe a new shirt and, “Oh God, Nick’s gonna kill me if I get fired.”

Liam shucks off his suit jacket and grimaces when his damp shirt sticks to his skin. He just wants this man to let him go so he can hopefully change before Perrie sees and laughs in his face. See, why has Harry got to harp on about him never leaving his office? If Liam hadn’t left the safety of his mahogany desk, he would never have gotten into this mess or picked up an unnecessary dry cleaning bill.

“Louis, what’s going on?” Someone walks out of the office door, and Liam momentarily forgets how to breathe. He knows he’s been out of the dating circuit for a good while, hasn’t even had a good shag in ages. But, in his defense, if he knew people like this were out there, he might’ve felt more adventurous. He might’ve even felt inclined to indulge his sisters’ attempts to set him up with their friend’s cousin’s catsitter’s best friend.

Dark, piercing eyes framed by impossibly long lashes bore into Liam. “Who’re you?”

Liam coughs weakly to find his voice after an awkward amount of time has passed. It doesn’t quite shake his nerves, but it’s enough for him to break out of his stupor. “Liam Payne, nice to meet you.” He offers out his hand, not one to let a Russia-sized coffee stain on his front keep him from upholding professionalism. “I work a few floors below you.”

“Then what’re you doing here?” An elegant eyebrow arches to match the cool tone. “Besides delaying my coffee run?”

Thoroughly rebuffed, Liam lowers his hand and stiffens. Cheekbones or not, he’s not about to waste his breath. Liam doesn’t make it a habit to blarney pricks without the promise of a multi-million-pound record deal. Without that incentive in sight, he bites out, “I’m looking for Perrie Edwards.”

“She’s not here,” comes the terse response. “My assistant will show you out.” The glass door slams shut.

“Nice boss you got there,” Liam snorts to Louis. He shoots one last glare to where he can see the rude bastard typing on his laptop through the stupid clear walls. He definitely doesn’t think about how his silky hair might feel between Liam’s fingers—ideally while that sharp tongue lapped at the head of his prick.

“Hey, he pays my bills.” Louis shrugs. “I’m not complaining. Also, all I’ve got is this.” He holds up a ratty jumper that has GRL PWR embroidered on the front. “Take it or leave it.”

Liam briefly considers walking back to his office shirtless, but he doesn’t quite fancy a workplace harassment lawsuit. He glares at Louis’ shit-eating grin, scowls, and can’t bring himself to grab the jumper just yet. He doesn’t know how he’s going to sneak back to his office without Perrie seeing him in it. Then he wonders if he can accuse Perrie of not being a feminist if she takes the piss out of him. Probably not if he wants to keep his bollocks, which he very much does.

“Louis, I—oh.” Louis’ boss reappears and freezes in the doorframe.

Of course, that’s how Perrie finds them: Liam doing his best half-shirtless impression of a deer in the headlights, Louis proudly repping feminism because it’s bloody 2018, and Louis’ boss going redder and redder in the face. To her credit, Perrie just rolls her eyes, mutters “ _Boys_ ,” under her breath, and gets to work. “Liam,” she barks in her stern business voice, “tuck your tits away. No one wants to see that.”

Liam hastily unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way, shrugs it off, and yanks on the jumper. When his head pops through the neck, he tugs it down over stomach only to find it only makes it about halfway to the waist of his trousers. “What the hell?” He tugs ineffectually at the fabric, feeling exposed. “Why is this—have you cut the bottom of this?”

“It’s my girlfriend’s, soz.” Louis looks the exact opposite of apologetic, lips twitching with poorly hidden amusement. “Crop tops are all the rage, y’know.”

“Your girl—” Liam’s voice comes out so strangled he can’t finish his sentence.

“Louis,” Perrie cuts in ruthlessly, “I don’t want to know how your girlfriend’s clothes have ended up here, but please go get Zayn his caffeine fix before he becomes unmanageable. Sorry,” she shoots a disdainful glance at Louis’ boss, “I mean more unmanageable than usual.”

Zayn glares as Louis scurries off with a, “Yes, ma’am.”

Perrie starts to shoo Liam in the direction of the lift, but not before she looks over her shoulder to simper, “And, Zayn, try not to ogle Liam’s bum too obviously.”

“Perrie!” Liam hisses, cheeks warm.

But she just winks and flounces ahead.

Liam tries to give Zayn an apologetic look, but he won’t meet Liam’s eyes. Giving it up as a lost cause and deciding he can never show his face on this floor again, Liam trails after Perrie. He doesn’t notice Louis peeking around the corner with wide, hopeful eyes.

* * *

The next time Liam sees Zayn, he’s more appropriately dressed, if a bit irked at his assistant after seeing Harry has allotted a fifteen minute time slot in his day’s agenda to return Louis’ jumper. Liam resolutely deletes the calendar alert on his phone with a vicious jab of his finger. The last thing he needs is to see Zayn’s condescending face even if Liam wouldn’t mind another look at his plush lips.

Liam takes a calming breath, lets all his pent up frustration whoosh out on the exhale. He needs to concentrate if he expects to sit in his next three hour long meeting without bouncing off the walls. Unfortunately, his newly acquired tranquility vanishes when Liam opens the door to see Zayn himself sat at the head of the table.

“Er,” Liam checks his phone, “am I in the right place?”

“Obviously not, if I’m here.” Zayn rolls eyes. “I’ve got this room booked at noon, so you’ve got fifteen minutes to leave.”

Liam wants to punch Zayn in his snarky mouth. All Zayn had to say was “No, sorry, you’re in the wrong place.” But when Liam glances down at his mobile again, he finds someone has changed the designated location in his calendar app to an entirely different floor. He frowns and reminds himself to get on Harry about this later. For now, “Right, sorry about that. Have a good day, Mr. Malik.” He mentally pats himself on the back for not slamming the door childishly like he wants to.

Liam forgets about his mental note about Harry until a couple weeks later, during which Liam has stumbled in Zayn no fewer than six times in a variety of schedule mix ups on both their parts. At this point, Zayn has lost his haughtiness since he’s opened the wrong door just as many times as Liam has.

The first time it had been Zayn’s fault, his flushed face had been worth his pompous words from before. Liam had just smirked and enjoyed Zayn hastily slipping back out into the hallway.

The second time, Zayn frowned at Liam, who was midway through the marketing numbers for that cycle. He muttered, “I’m going to kills Louis,” before pulling the door shut.

By now, it’s old news for Liam run into Zayn after lunch and before his next meeting with Balvin to discuss the possible market in Latin America, specifically Argentina where their polls have returned promising numbers after FT picked up a new act from Buenos Aires.

“Mr. Payne,” Zayn greets.

Liam doesn’t think he imagines the amused lilt to Zayn’s lips. They both know where this is going. “Room 72A?” Liam asks unnecessarily.

“Of course.”

Liam chuckles and gestures him forward. “After you.”

“I still haven’t gotten around to firing Louis,” Zayn sighs as they turn down a corridor. “This is getting ridiculous. There’s thousands of rooms in this damn place, and somehow I always end up with you.”

“Careful,” Liam teases, “someone might get the wrong idea and think that you actually like me.” It probably should feel strange how comfortable it is to walk with Zayn like this, like old friends whose banter borders on flirting. But it really isn’t. Commiserating about incompetent personal assistants makes a great icebreaker, it turns out.

“Well,” Zayn stops in front of their room, “‘like’ might be too strong. Let’s just say I can stand you. Most days.”

“You flatter me.”

Zayn shoots him a coy look under his lashes, a hint of a smile returning to draw Liam’s gaze in. Then he opens the door to see if today Liam’s team has spread their paperwork over the table or if Zayn’s creative group has splayed their laptops out with a dozen different programs running.

That’s where the familiar song and dance ends because neither Balvin nor Malay’s familiar faces look back at Liam and Zayn. Instead, a handful of unknown suits glance up from their tablets and sheafs of paper to stare at them.

“Um.” Liam has lost the plot a little. This has never happened before. One woman in particular looks like she would set him on fire with her mind if she could.

“We’re so sorry,” Zayn jumps in smoothly. “We must’ve gotten the wrong room.” Liam takes in the projected PowerPoint at the front of the room, ready and raring to go. The first slide reads **LM5: A Follow Up to** **_Glory Days_ **. “Right, we’ll be on our way.” Zayn grabs Liam’s wrist, yanks him back, and shuts the door.

They blink owlishly at each other before bursting into laughter.

“Oh my God,” Liam wheezes, “did you see their faces? I thought they were going to file a lawsuit.”

“I swear I saw a guy’s forehead vein pulse,” Zayn snorts. “What a bunch of fucking pricks, Jesus.”

“Probably all looked so uncomfortable and tense because of the sticks up their arses,” Liam agrees. That earns him another peal of laughter from Zayn.

As they amble away from the occupied office, Liam can’t help but get drawn in by how the humor opens Zayn’s face up. His nose crinkles, and his tongue presses against the back of his teeth. The exhausted lines around his eyes soften more than Liam would’ve thought possible if he hadn’t spent so much time around Zayn lately. His dark eyes sparkle with mirth, and Liam plucks up his courage to add, “I used to think you were just like them, you know, a total heartless magnate type.”

Zayn turns to face Liam, eyes searching and lips curving upward. “And what do you think now?”

“I think,” Liam leans in and feels a frisson of excitement when Zayn doesn’t back away, “there’s more to you than my first impression led me to believe.”

“Is that so?” Zayn still doesn’t step away, lets Liam linger in his space. “More to me than my company?” His expression darkens a fraction. “Not a lot of people would agree with you.”

“Lucky you,” Liam says in a low voice, reaching out to touch Zayn’s shoulder. His hand follows the long line of his arm down to his bony wrist and ringed fingers. “It’s not them with you right now. It’s me.”

Zayn doesn’t respond right away. He looks down to where Liam has loosely clasped their hands and rubs a finger over Liam’s shiny watch. Then he glances up to study Liam’s face. Liam hopes he finds something he likes.

Just when Liam feels like he might shake apart waiting for Zayn to speak, his phone buzzes. Liam jumps a little, and Zayn drops his hand to dig his own mobile out of his bag.

“Calendar update from Louis.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Harry’s emailed me too,” Liam says. He tries not to visibly deflate at the thought of parting ways, but Zayn must sense something—the droop of Liam’s tone, the slump of his shoulders—because he offers Liam a slight smile.

“I’ll see you around, Liam.” He saunters off before Liam can respond. Liam feels a shiver shimmying down his spine at the way Zayn’s tongue rolls over his name like a caramel sweet.

* * *

“This cannot be happening.” Zayn rubs his temple, but that won’t stop his impending migraine or the fact that his issue’s next headliner just dropped out without warning. Kacey Musgrave’s team broke contract with a perfunctory letter and a envelope enclosing a check to cover their fee for backing out. He takes one more look at Kacey’s loopy signature at the bottom of the page; thinks about the hours of work spent on preparing the cover alone, not to mention the actual spread, now down the drain; and yells, “Louis!”

A moment later, his assistant bursts in and nearly drops his iPad in his haste. “Yes, Mr. Malik?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard by now—” Zayn gestures at his desk in disgust, unable to even say it aloud again. It takes all his willpower not to sweep the letter into the bin where it belongs. But that won’t delay his upcoming deadlines, so instead Zayn snaps, “We need someone new to cover our August/September issue. Someone whose people are quick to reply because this is going to be a rush job.” Zayn grimaces even as he admits it. Speed typically comes at the price of quality, but he doesn’t have much of an option. This is what he gets for going for a musician as his cover instead of sticking to his usual realm of artists.

“Who should I reach out to?” Louis asks, stylus ready and twitching in his fingers.

Zayn closes his eyes to think. “Furler?”

“On tour until the end of this year.”

“Kehlani?”

“Halfway through her radio promo in North America.”

“Brathwaite?”

“Shut away writing for the next four months.”

“Well, get him the fuck out of the studio and over here.”

Louis frowns. “I’m not sure if—”

“That wasn’t a request,” Zayn interrupts firmly.

Louis swallows. “Right, sorry, Mr. Malik. I’ll get right on it.”

When Louis shuffles out, the door bangs shut, and Zayn’s inevitable migraine blooms behind his throbbing eyes.

* * *

A week later, Zayn still hasn’t fumbled together a contingency plan to fill up next month’s empty cover. Jahron refused to give up his studio time and flat out hung up when Zayn lost his temper. He’s not proud. He just lost a valuable connection without getting any closer to solving his problem, but Zayn can feel his control fraying. Every day that passes amplifies the tense atmosphere in the office. He saw an intern’s knees visibly shake when Zayn stormed by her.

“Gigi,” Zayn sighs into his mobile. “Gigi, listen, I—Gigi.”

He rolls his neck and bites back a groan when it pops a couple times. At this point, it hardly feels satisfying anymore. It doesn’t do much to relieve the pounding pressure building in his skull or the anxious energy that jitters down his limbs. It doesn’t help that his insomnia has flared up again, leaving ghastly bruises under his eyes.

“Gigi,” he repeats firmly, gathering his scattered bearings to force his authoritative voice down the line, “yes, I know Taylor’s been trying to avoid the media ripping into her and her new beau, but I wouldn’t be asking if it I wasn’t desperate.” Zayn licks his chapped bottom lip. The admission tastes bitter on his tongue, twinges his stubborn pride. But it’s the truth. Zayn’s time is running out, and he doesn’t want to know what happens when the last grain of sand drains from the hourglass.

“I know it wasn’t smart to push off Musgraves’ interview until the last minute,” Zayn groans, “but she had a hectic schedule, so I thought I could move onto prep for the next few issues until she was free. I wasn’t expecting her to pull the carpet out from under my feet like this.”

He lets Gigi yell at him a little more before he tries to get a word in again. “Please, Gigi, I’m running out of options. I can’t fail.” Zayn clenches his fist so tightly his nails dig painfully into his skin. “If I fuck up, it’s not just _Zap!_ that gets slammed for it, you know that. They’ll see it as a shortcoming for every company headed by a Muslim or a person of color. People like me,” Zayn closes his eyes briefly, “we don’t get a second chance. Not in this industry.”

He breathes out in relief when Gigi grudgingly relents, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” Zayn sags in his chair. “I owe you one.”

The line clicks dead. Zayn tries to squash down the tiny seed of hope blooming in his chest. It’s a long shot, he knows, but it gives him a bubble of breathing room for the first time in days.

* * *

“Harry, this really isn’t a good time.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re in a bit of a crisis mode right now. Our cover star for next month’s issue cancelled at the last second. We were in post-production of her photoshoot and were just waiting on her interview to cobble together the body text. Now we’ve got to scrap everything and find someone new in…five days, or else we won’t have time to process everything and get it printed in time.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up. I don’t think Zayn’s slept in weeks. There might be more Red Bull and coffee in him than blood at this point.”

“You sound horrible, Louis.”

“If Zayn isn’t sleeping, neither am I. You know how it goes.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can get me an artist willing to do an exclusive with _Zap!_.”

“Do you have a genre preference?”

“Harry, I’m joking.”

“I’m not. I think you’re forgetting I work for an actual record label, Lewis.”

“Harry.” Louis has to steady his breathing. “No bullshit. Are you one hundred percent serious right now?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

“Who, um,” Louis clears his throat and tries to reign in his racing heart, “who is signed under Liam? And ideally owes him a favor or could really use some good coverage?”

“We mostly have smaller artists. A new American boyband we poached from Syco. An Australian trio who just left their independent label.” Harry starts rattling off names that mean nothing to Louis, which means they won’t have the name recognition _Zap!_ needs for a cover.

“Harry, think bigger. We need a household name, not some weird indie shit.”

“Alright, hold on.  Er, I think our biggest profit margin comes from, let me see, Perrie just sent Liam a spreadsheet…Rita Ora?”

Louis almost stops breathing. “Rita,” he clears his throat, “Rita Ora? Harry, can you get me Rita Ora in less than a week? That could work. She’s a new album coming out soon, yeah? She must want some exposure to amp up the release date.”

“Yeah, and I think she’s pretty close with Liam. I’ll try dropping some hints and see if he’ll get in touch with Zayn.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. Zayn’s getting desperate. But Rita Ora, that’s perfect, especially if she knows Liam personally.”

“Looks like our Cyrano-ing is back on track.”

Louis laughs, muscles feeling stiff from disuse. He doesn’t remember the last time he did anything but hunch over his desk and frown at looming deadlines. “Yeah, I guess so. Oh, Zayn’s coming out of his office. I’ll talk to you later, Haz. Thanks.”

* * *

Zayn doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, doesn’t even have time to do so, what with Gigi calling him back to regretfully say that Taylor declined. But when he sees his assistant’s sunny smile while chatting on the phone, Zayn can’t help the annoyance sparking under his skin. He doesn’t pay Louis to sit around and natter with his mum at work.

He shoves his chair back so hard it bangs into the wall behind, which sends some of his knickknacks tumbling off the shelf. Crunching one under his boot, Zayn stalks towards the door to take out some of his frustrations on Louis and his bloody phone.

But when Zayn gets closer, he can make out the tail end of Louis’ conversation. He catches _Rita Ora_ , and everything else stops as Zayn quickly racks his memory for all things Rita: twenty-seven years old, four BRIT nominations, a debut album launched several years ago, but a new one rumored to be on the way. He tries to remember when she got off her last tour in order to calculate how many months she’s had to put together a full length studio album. It’s a ballpark estimation at best, but Zayn knows a music mogul who would know for certain if Rita’s team would be open to a _Zap!_ exclusive.

“Tomlinson, what floor is the First Time Records headquarters?”

* * *

“Thank you again,” Zayn says, swilling his wine around in his glass. “Saying you did me a huge favor would be an understatement.” The Michelin star restaurant he can’t remember the name of has low lights that refract off the crystal rim when he brings it to his lips.

Liam gets a bit distracted watching Zayn’s throat swallow, but catches himself. “Yeah, of course, it was no problem. Perrie set everything up, and Rita was more than happy for a quick photoshoot before she announces the album officially. I’m glad it worked out.”

“No, I mean it, Liam.” Zayn reaches out to cover Liam’s hand with his own. “Thank you. You kinda saved my arse.”

Liam swallows down his nerves and carefully flips his hand over, palm up, so he can lace his fingers with Zayn’s. “Thanks for letting me take you to dinner. Been wanting to do this for a while now.”

One corner of Zayn’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was just waiting for the right excuse to see you again.”

“Too bad you had to see me when I was such a mess.”

“Like you’re ever not a mess?” Liam teases lightly, delighted when Zayn’s nose wrinkles.

“Hey, you try nearly missing a deadline and see how much sleep you get!”

“Preaching to the choir here,” Liam placates. “Perrie swears I’ll be bald at thirty if I don’t die of sleep deprivation first.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Driving while tired is just as dangerous as driving while intoxicated,” Liam recites dutifully.

“Guess s’why we work hard, yeah? Gotta make enough money to tip our drivers.”

“Cheers.”

Their glasses clink lightly. Over the rim, Liam can see Zayn eyeing him across the table, sizing him up. So when their food arrives, Liam isn’t surprised when Zayn speaks up first while twirling noodles around the tines of his fork.

“So, normally, I’d try to exercise at least some of my shit social skills and make small talk about your family, your job, your dreams and aspirations for life.” Zayn pauses and makes a face. “Well, maybe not your job since I see you in the office practically every day.”

“Shop talk’s off the table?” Liam pretends to look put out. “Damn, I was really looking forward to chatting all night about what I already spend every other hour of my day thinking about.”

“ _But_ ,” Zayn perseveres, fighting back a smile, “I think I’d much rather fast forward to the fun bits.”

“Which would be?” Liam leans in.

Zayn mirrors him to murmur in a low voice, “The part where you take me home and fuck me until I can’t walk tomorrow.” Liam’s eyes widen at Zayn’s filthy smirk. He sits back to sip leisurely at his wine and watch Liam’s cheeks pink. “Still thinking about work?”

Liam coughs and fidgets in his seat, stomach clenching at the thought of Zayn’s cocky mouth put to better use. “Not in the slightest.”

“Good.”

For the rest of the evening, Liam doesn’t think about anything that doesn’t involve Zayn’s pink lips stretched around his cock or the pretty sheen of sweat on Zayn’s chest that makes his tattoos gleam. He forgets all about promo cycles in favor of trading sloppy snogs with Zayn while the silk sheets rasp pleasantly against their skin, while Zayn gets a hand on Liam’s bum to haul him closer. The little punched out noises Zayn gasps while writhing on Liam’s fingers sound sweeter than any demo. He can’t remember much besides how to chant Zayn’s name like a prayer when he finally slides into him, tight and hot and perfect.

They find a rhythm that has Liam groaning into the hollow between Zayn’s shoulder blades and Zayn’s thighs trembling under Liam. He holds Zayn’s waist steady while his hips snap forward, urged on by Zayn’s littany of “Harder, faster, fuck, Liam, yeah, like that.” He feels Zayn’s breathing hitch as he wanks off and comes onto the sheets with a choked off noise, going vice tight around Liam. Liam’s not far behind him, driving into Zayn’s pliant body until his own muscles lock up and he comes with a moan.

It takes him a couple breathless moments to unplaster himself from Zayn’s back. He makes a face when he pulls out and can’t help but laugh when Zayn grimaces over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Liam says, patting Zayn’s bum. “I’ll be right back.”

Zayn doesn’t say much when Liam returns with a damp flannel to wipe the drying mess of come from his skin. But he does hum gratefully when Liam rolls him out of the wet patch on the bed.

Liam knows he hasn’t been out and about with someone like this since Cheryl and might not know the rules of a one night stand too well. But he doesn’t think that one night stands are supposed to end with Zayn’s head on his chest, hair tickling Liam’s nose, and arm slung over Liam’s waist. Zayn’s drowsy snuffles and murmured, “Goodnight, Liam,” give him hope that maybe this could happen again.

The next day, Liam and Zayn don’t make it into the office until eleven. When he finally gets out of the lift on his floor, Liam swears he sees Zayn’s assistant flitting around the corner. But before he can wonder too much about that, Harry appears and bombards him with a hundred new proposals just as Liam’s mobile buzzes. He waves Harry towards his desk and opens the text to see that Perrie’s sent him a dozen eggplant emojis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post [here](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/181403948145/youre-too-good-to-be-all-mine-chapters-25-wc)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the scene that initially inspired this whole mess: the pool scene from Set It Up. Harper and Pete Davidson's character bonding during that scene really fucking got me. And then Nailee (RIP) feelings somehow wormed in because the Nailee pics from Disneyland and New York surfaced while writing this. Basically, this is a big part of what motivated me to write this whole damn thing. Happy new year!

“Tomlinson, I’m taking the rest of the day,” Zayn casually tosses over his shoulder. He breezes by as if he does this every Wednesday at noon.

“W-what?” Louis chokes. He nearly tips out of his chair in his haste to chase after his boss, who has clearly lost his mind. “Mr. Malik!”

Zayn turns on his heel and crosses his arms over his chest, mouth set in an impatient line. “What part of that sentence confused you?”

_The part where you implied that you were going to leave the office in broad daylight,_ Louis doesn’t say. Instead, he stammers unattractively and flicks his gaze down to the day’s agenda. However, someone has cleared the electronic calendar and left Zayn’s afternoon wide open. “Er, I mean,” Louis gulps, too scared to even dare to hope, “have a nice day, Mr. Malik?”

Zayn nods in annoyance and sweeps down the hall towards the lift.

Louis sags against the wall, clutching the iPad to his chest. He contemplates pinching himself to wake up from this dream, but he doesn’t know if he wants to yet. So, he does the next best thing.

“Hello. Styles Guitar Emporium. You rock it, we stock it. How may I help you today?”

“Harry,” Louis feels a bit faint, “Zayn just left the office.”

“Oh yeah, Liam left a while ago too. I’m actually finishing up here and then on my way down the ground floor. Meet you there?”

“Harold,” Louis says as Harry steps out of the lift doors, “I don’t think you’re quite comprehending what’s happened. Our,” he leans in and hushes his tone, eyes darting around suspiciously, “possibly clinically insane bosses who might also be robots until proven otherwise,” he straightens up to continue in a normal voice, “have left the premises.” Louis gesticulates wildly to the windows. “I can still see the sun. I’ve only gone on two coffee runs today.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees genially, “and I’m getting out of here before Liam comes back to his senses and this is all some big terrible prank.” He claps Louis on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

It isn’t a pinch, but Louis will take it. Reality confirmed, he rings up Eleanor.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Yeah, El. How’re you?”

“Fine. Nearly done with a shoot for Reebok. What’s up?”

Louis could burst with how much he wants to tell her about the parallel dimension he’s somehow fallen into, in which Zayn and Liam take half-days. But then he remembers all the times over the past years that he’s had to cancel dates or missed anniversaries or been too tired for sex if he managed to come home before she fell asleep. And in the spur of the moment, Louis says, “Look, I hate to ask, but I was wondering if you could pop by my flat during your lunch break. I’ve left some really important files at home, but Zayn won’t let me out.”

“Yeah, of course,” Eleanor chirps. “I’ll be off in a couple hours or so.”

“Thanks, love. I owe you one.”

* * *

“Hey, you’re home before me. Did you finally quit?” Nick drawls as he shuts the flat door. He kicks off his boots and walks into the kitchen to hop onto the counter like their kitchen isn’t made for literal ants and Louis doesn’t need that miniscule space to mince garlic. “Or did you crack like a walnut and raze the whole place to the ground?” He reaches for a cherry tomato, but quickly snatches his hand back when Louis brandishes the knife. He eyes the gleaming blade pointedly. “Could see it either way, really.”

Louis scowls. “No, prick, I got off early.” He gestures to the bags for life sprawled haphazardly over their tiny kitchen. “So I was going to make El lunch. Surprise her, like.”

“Awww,” Nick coos. “Maybe she does stick around with you for a good reason after all.”

“Think she’ll let me fuck her over the island if I ask nicely?” Louis ponders aloud just to see Nick grimace.

“Reckon El’ll let you fuck her just about anywhere at this point,” he shrugs. “She says she’s a bit tired of wanking herself off at this point, and she didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Oi, don’t talk to my girlfriend about our sex life.”

“You mean your lack of one?” Nick smirks.

Louis would grab the knife again, but the YouTube lady compared sautéeing mushrooms to brain surgery and rocket science, so he keeps his attention laser focused on the bubbling olive oil. “I mean,” Louis stirs the pan, “if you don’t want to witness firsthand the magnificent revival of it, then I’d recommend leaving in about,” Louis checks the time, “thirty-five minutes.”

Nick gags and pretends to vomit in the sink.

Louis whacks him with a dish towel. “You just know that if you saw my glorious willy, you’d fall madly in love with me.”

“Uh-huh.” Nick rolls his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that. And make sure your condoms haven’t expired. As much as I love El, I don’t know if I’m prepared to see her little monsters running amok.”

“Expired?” Louis scoffs. “It hasn’t been that long, Christ.”

Nick levels him with an unimpressed look before flouncing out. He putters around to grab his phone, wallet, and a jacket before bounding out of the flat with a, “I’m off to Pixie’s. Call me when it’s safe to return!”

Louis glares at his simmering red sauce until he can’t take it anymore. He lowers the heat on the hob and stalks to his room. He grabs the condoms stuffed into the back of his nightstand drawer, ignores the Nick-like voice in his head that cackles, “Is that dust on them?”, and heads back to the kitchen. He throws them to the side to check later and returns his attention to making something at least somewhat edible for Eleanor.

Louis has just set the table, broken out the napkins without fast food logos and the nice dishes they only use around holidays when they have to pretend to be proper functioning adults that host dinner parties, when he hears the lock scrape open. The handle jiggles a little as Eleanor tries to jimmy open the sticky door. Finally, she bursts through with a well-placed ram of her shoulder. She lets out a little “Oof!” and stumbles in.

Then she squeaks, “ _Louis_?”

“Surprise, love.” Louis thinks the jazz hands really sells it, though the MAY I SUGGEST THE SAUSAGE apron with an arrow pointing down to his dick that Nick got him last Christmas might help.

“I don’t,” she closes the door and totters her way to the table. “I don’t understand. Did you quit?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? Zayn let me out early.”

Eleanor runs a finger over the blue and white checkered tablecloth. “Sorry, sorry, but you do know this has literally never happened before. I mean both you getting home before, like, ten _and_ you voluntarily cooking.” She eyes the frankly alarming amount of pasta in the colander—Louis had shit signal at the shop when he tried to Google how many boxes of noodles would feed two people—then stirs the sauce. “I’m sorry, but is there _zucchini_ in this?”

Louis wilts a little. “Do you not like zucchini?” He shoots the pot a baleful glare, like he can will the offending vegetable away if he tries hard enough. He ducks out of the apron and sets it aside for something to do with his hands.

“No,” she giggles. “Lou, that is _so_ not the problem right now.”

“Then what is the problem?” Louis demands.

“The problem,” Eleanor’s voice goes velvety as she rounds the table to step into Louis space, “is that you made us lunch when the only thing you should be eating is me.” Her breath ghosts over his ear and sends a shiver down his spine.

Louis fingers tighten on her hips, dragging her forward. “Yeah?” He starts to back her against the nearest countertop. “I think we can do that.”

Her lips feel a little tacky with gloss when he finally tastes them, but he can’t find it in himself to mind when the kiss burns sweeter than he remembers. It’s been so long since they’ve shared more than brief hello or goodbye pecks that Louis feels overwhelmed. Eleanor whimpers so lovely against his mouth when he tugs on her bottom lip with his teeth, when one hand slips into her overcoat to pet her bare side. He forgot how much liked her fingers slipping through his hair, running almost ticklish down his neck.

“Louis,” she sighs as he drags his mouth away from the pink bow of lips to mouth the soft line of her jaw, the hint of perfume at her neck. He hums against her collarbones and starts to push her coat off her shoulders. It falls away easily to reveal a sports bra and tiny gym shorts with Reebok insignias on them.

The bra looks infinitely too strappy and complicated to bother dealing with, so Louis just cups her through the tight material as best he can. He lets his fingers run over the criss-crossing straps and listens to Eleanor’s breath hitch when he pushes against her nipples through the smooth fabric. She arches into his touch, flush high on her cheeks and eyelashes fluttering.

“You look so good, El,” Louis exhales in a reverent tone against her shoulder. His hands give her tits one last squeeze before gliding down her soft stomach to toy with the elastic waistband of her shorts.

“Good enough to eat?” Eleanor asks in an innocent voice that belies the way her hips push invitingly forward.

Louis indulges himself a heady grind against her, lets her feel how hard he is in his jeans, and relishes in her breathy moan. Then Louis slowly sinks to his knees, leaving sloppy kisses down her chest to her navel along the way like proof he was there, worshipping her skin, claiming her freckles. He looks up at her, hands spanning her waist and drawing slowly down her quivering thighs. “I think so, love.”

She shudders out a breath and widens her stance. She steadies herself with one hand white-knuckling the counter and the other tangled in Louis’ hair. When Louis teases kisses against the inside of her thigh, the side of her knee, she whines, “Louis, please.”

“Please what?” he mumbles against her flexing tendons, but he leans up on his knees anyway, kisses her through the flimsy shorts. His nose brushes the softest curve of her abdomen.

She throws her head back with a bitten back cry and jerks her hips against his lips, like she can’t help herself, like she’s so desperate for some sort of relief. He holds her waist tighter, enjoys the slight give under his palms. “Please,” she pants, “I’m so wet, please.”

And Louis has never been able to deny Eleanor anything. So he easily tugs her shorts down to get his mouth on her knickers. He laps at the lacey fabric and feels his dick twitch at how wet they are, how deeply they taste of Eleanor. She shakes above him, lovely thighs tensing when he tongues the soaked lace against her clit.

“Take them off, take them off,” Eleanor rasps, “fuck.”

Louis complies, sliding the knickers smeared with Eleanor’s slick down to her ankles with her shorts. Unobstructed, he leans in to lick a broad stripe up to her throbbing clit. Eleanor all but shouts, and that’s all the encouragement Louis needs. He presses delicate kisses all around her clit before drawing down to lick at where’s she’s most wet. It’s heady, seeing Eleanor scrunch her eyes shut when he does something right, hearing her whimper and gasp. She writhes against his hold on her, pushing against his tongue and shying away when his teeth graze her clit.

He knows getting Eleanor to come is a marathon, not a sprint, so he can’t hold back the surprised noise when he hears the hitch in her breath and how her keens pitch a little higher. It’s too soon, way sooner than he was prepared to kneel on the kitchen floor eating her out. But Louis isn’t complaining. He groans when her fingers tighten in his hair.

He leans back just enough to croak, “C’mon, El, fuck my face.”

She blinks at him, hips stuttering and hesitant. Louis knows he has a small window before she loses her rhythm, so he cups her bum with one hand and uses the other to gently guide her hand from his hair to cradle his cheek. “It’s okay,” he kisses her palm. “I know you’re close.”

She nods, cheeks pink. Stray strands fall from her bun to curl near her ears. She sometimes gets like this, unbearably shy when she’s close despite Louis proper moaning into her folds or fucking her so hard she slides up the mattress. She won’t tip his head just the way she needs or adjust the angle of his hips so he grazes a sweet spot. So Louis rubs a comforting palm over her thigh and coaxes, “C’mon, El, c’mon.”

“Yeah, I—okay,” she whispers, eyes glazed and lips kiss-bruised and breaths short.

“Good girl,” he praises with a quick kiss to the crease of her thigh. He lets her slender fingers nudge his head forward and loses himself in the wetness smearing his mouth and chin, the filthy slick grind of her against his aching tongue. He follows her direction back to her hard clit to gently lap at it.

Her breathing comes harsher, little noises seeping out that escalate when Louis sinks two fingers into her with a wet noise. She rocks frantically against his fingers, his name joining the litany of _fucks_ and _oh Gods_.

Finally, she curls over him with a long moan, muscles locking up as her orgasm washes over her and trickles down Louis’ fingers. He gentles her through it, slowly rising off his sore knees to wrap her up in a slightly sticky embrace. Her breath puffs warm against the hollow of his throat as she shivers. He brushes her damp hair from her face with his clean hand.

“I can’t believe you made me come with my trainers still on,” Eleanor finally mutters against his neck. She sounds lazy and shagged out, one of Louis’ favorite versions of her.

Louis grins into the top of her head. “Could make you come with them off too,” he offers magnanimously.

She straightens up for a messy kiss, hand finding his jaw and fingertips swiping through the slick on his chin. “Could do,” she mumbles. She fumbles to kick off her shorts and knickers while still kissing distractedly at his face.

Eventually, they dissolve into giggles and separate properly. She toes her shoes off while Louis rips off his shirt and wiggles out of his jeans at last. Once Eleanor has stripped out of her labyrinth of a bra, Louis scoops her up. She shrieks with delight and clings to him until he lowers her onto the couch.

Something crinkles under her. She makes a face and reaches in the crack of the pillows to find a strip of condoms. She puts on a mock outraged expression. “What kind of girl do you take me for, Louis Tomlinson?”

“The kind who puts out for homemade pasta?”

She shoves at his shoulder. “If I knew this earlier, I’d have started ransoming sex for pasta years ago!”

Louis snorts and settles on the couch, crawling between her legs to blanket his whole body over hers. He groans when his knees crack.

“Got old man knees?” she teases, running a hand through his fringe.

“I do,” Louis concedes. “But you came pretty quick, love. Very helpful, very hot.”

She flushes and looks away. “It’s been a while,” she defends herself.

“It has, which is why this is going to be much shorter than I’d like.” Louis sucks lingering kisses down her neck to the delicate skin between her breasts.

Eleanor sighs and melts against the cushions, lets his familiar hands cup her tits and thumb her nipples. They’re not the most sensitive bits of her, but she likes the scrape of his teeth and basks in the mottled bruises his mouth leaves behind. She especially likes how worked up it gets Louis and groans appreciatively when he grinds down against her.

“Can’t wait to feel you inside me,” she gasps, palming down his flexing back to his arse. She tugs down his pants until he gets the idea and shimmies out of them.

She grabs one of the condoms and rips it open. She yelps when some of the lube dribbles out onto her stomach and pouts until Louis presses an amused kiss to her cheek. Appeased, she rolls the condom on and gives him a few lazy pulls. Her clit throbs when she sees his eyes darken and feels the way his hips twitch forward into her grasp. He leans in for a heady kiss. Eleanor swears she can still taste her come on his tongue.

The first push in takes both their breaths away. Louis hovers over Eleanor, faces inches apart, and watches her expression slacken as he settles all the way in.

She slowly opens her eyes and reaches up to trace his eyebrow, the ridge of his nose, the sweat beading at his temple. Her thumb brushes his bottom lip until he nips at it playfully.

“Okay, love?”

She wraps her legs around his waist and gives a cheeky roll of her hips. “I’m great,” she says. “Now are you going to fuck me or not?”

Louis hisses and responds with a light slap to her bum and sharp snap of his hips. Everything fades away except the bounce of Eleanor’s tits with every thrust, the hot tight clench of her around his prick, the peek of her tongue as her mouth falls open, the burn of Louis’ muscles as he pounds into her, the obscene sound of them fucking in the quiet flat. He swivels his hips and shifts the angle until she cries out, hand coming up to grab his bicep. Her eyes squeeze shut, and he grips her hips harder.

He feels his orgasm pooling far too quickly, can tell she isn’t quite there. “El, I’m close,” he grits out.

“I want to come with you inside me,” she gasps out, eyes wide. “Please.”

He nods and coaxes her to sit up. They resettle with Louis reclined back and Eleanor situated in his lap. When he slides back into her, it feels just as intoxicating as the first time. She barely has bottomed out before she starts to move. She bounces on his lap with devastating control of her hips, grinding her wet cunt against his lap. Her hands find his chest and shoulder for balance. She throws her head back, bun precarious and loose hair sticking to her damp neck. He can’t resist straightening up to get his teeth into her collarbones.

“Close?” he gasps out, lungs tight and aching in the best way.

“Yeah,” she pants back, hands drifting down to circle her clit. She touches herself softly and delicately compared to the bruising way she slams down on Louis’ dick.

But he lets her find her finicky pleasure and peppers kisses across her shoulders, hands squeezing her bum, fingers pressing lightly at the slick place they’re joined. He nibbles on her ear. “Fuck, baby, you’re so fit, so tight. Taking me so well.” Eleanor whimpers, and he continues, “How many times do you think I can make you come after this? Could bend you over the table, fuck you ‘till you can’t walk. Maybe let you ride my face.”

Eleanor manages a heartfelt, “Fuck,” then comes with a wracking shudder. Louis holds her close, shallowly pumps his hips. He feels her muscles clench rhythmically and her breathing stutter. It takes all of his willpower to let her ride it out, not wanting to interrupt but also dying a little inside as she squeezes around him. At last, her tense muscles slacken. It only takes a moment for him to gather her up and lay her out on the cushions, fucking into her with renewed desperation.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, presses shaky kisses to his nose, chin, lips. “Yes, fuck, just like that,” she murmurs. “You feel so good. I missed this so much.”

Louis comes with Eleanor’s come slicking up his thighs, her nails leaving crescents in his skin, her voice dripping sweet like honey. He grinds against her until the aftershocks pass, and she pets his sweaty hair. “There you go, love,” she murmurs against the corner of his mouth. He luxuriates in the plush feeling of her lips as they swap lazy kisses that devolves into simply breathing in each other’s air.

After a bit, he pulls out to toss the condom in the bin. When he pads back, he stops to admire the sweaty glisten of Eleanor’s skin, the wild remnants of her bun splayed against the cushions, the gleaming of her inner thighs.

“Enjoying the view?” Eleanor huffs, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

“Very much.” He frowns when she starts to sit up. “Where’re you going?”

“To fix all this,” she gestures to her smudged eyeliner and damp hair. She curls her toes. “As soon as my legs work again.”

Louis smirks. “Could have a cuddle while we wait.”

“No, because your definition of a cuddle is very different from my definition of a cuddle,” Eleanor responds firmly. “We haven’t got time for another go. I’m already late enough as it is.” Eleanor kisses the pout off his face on her way to the loo.

Louis sighs into it and pinches her bum as she passes. She swats at him with a laugh.  Louis could bask in that sunny sound, in the easiness of everything after months and months of rushed kisses and apologetic goodbyes.

While she tries to salvage her makeup, Louis sidles into the kitchen to retrieve their clothes and pops into their bedroom for fresh knickers. He packages up some of the cold pasta for her to eat on the way back to the—he checks the label on the shorts—Reebok photoshoot. Eleanor returns and halfheartedly bats him away while she wiggles into her shorts and Louis trails kisses up her spine. In the end, she gets her coat buttoned up and Louis back in his jeans.

“So,” she says, arms loose around his shoulders, “this was nice.”

“This was a bloody miracle, I think you mean,” Louis snorts.

“Yeah, it was. But, like,” she bites her bottom lip, “it’s nice to know that you’re just as crazy for me as I am for you. Even after all this time.”

Louis blinks in surprise. “‘Course I am, El. You’re the love of my life.” It feels so easy to say that, a fact of life: the sky is blue, Nick is a prat, and Louis Tomlinson will never love anyone else like he loves Eleanor Calder.

“And you’re mine,” she assures him earnestly, “but it hasn’t felt like that lately.” Her faces goes a little pained, eyes a little sad. “I know it’s not your fault, but it’s nice to know that the only thing between us is work stuff.”

“What do you mean?” Louis doesn’t follow.

“Like, when you say you would stay if you could, if you didn’t have to run after Zayn all the time, that you mean it. You’re not just saying it but are, like, secretly grateful for the office as an excuse not to see me or something.” It spills out in a rush, maybe a little ridiculous aloud, but Eleanor needs to get if off her chest before it crushes her ribcage into an unrecognizable heap.

Louis gapes and sputters, “What, El, I—of course not. Why would you think that?” Except Louis knows why she could get that idea, that absolutely insane idea that he’s not into her, not a hundred percent committed to this. She’s it for him, has been since their third date at a hole-in-the-wall chippy. He couldn’t afford to take her out to a posh place on his minimum wage salary, but it’s where he made Eleanor laugh so hard she snorted into her water and Louis stared at her the whole time with hearts in his eyes like a damn cartoon.

But, of course Eleanor has her doubts because Louis just hasn’t been there, not for the important milestones couples are supposed to tackle together. He missed her graduation from uni and barely managed to make it to the tail end of the afterparty. Hours before her first big photoshoot, he called her to talk her down from a panic because Zayn had taken him on a business trip to Japan. Louis misses and hears secondhand from Nick more pieces of her life than he’s proud to admit. The shame and guilt swamp over him, heavy enough to push all the air from his lungs. Louis wraps her up as tight as he can, nose pressed to her hair, chests flush, hand clutching the back of her neck.

“El,” he whispers fiercely, “you fucking idiot, if you can’t tell how absolutely in love I am with you—I had half the day off for the first time in ages, and the first thing I thought of was how to see you.” He shakes his head and feels her chuckle against his neck.

“How you could shag me, more like.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining earlier.”

“I’m not,” she agrees, extricating herself from his embrace. She steps back, but rests a hand on his cheek, like she can’t bear not feeling any part of him she can reach. Louis’ stomach goes warm and tingly at the thought, and the paroxysm of affection lingers long after she’s shut the door.

* * *

“Harry?” Hailee yawns as she pads into the kitchen.

“Morning, Haiz,” Harry chirps from the hob. “Cuppa?”

“Yes please,” she mumbles, shuffling into a chair. She props her cheek on one hand, elbow on the wood table, eyes fluttering shut. She doesn’t stir again until Harry plops a steaming mug of tea in front of her. “Thanks, H, you’re the best.”

Harry hums, “No problem,” and turns back to the eggs on the hob. After all these years, he knows better than to try and engage in conversation until at least fifteen minutes after Hailee’s gotten some caffeine in her.

Right on cue, she reaches up to run a sleepy hand through her hair, realizes it’s still up in a bun, and shifts into a back-cracking stretch instead. Smacking her lips and rubbing at her eyes, Hailee asks in a semi-croaky voice, “So what’s the occasion?”

“What occasion? There’s no occasion.”

Hailee raises a disbelieving eyebrow at the fry pan. “You only break out the full English breakfast when there’s an occasion, usually groveling but also sometimes when you have a surprise planned.” Before Harry can protest, she ticks off on her fingers, “When you found out you had to miss Niall’s birthday, that time you cancelled on boys’ night out, the day after Niall found the come stains on the couch.”

“Okay, I get it!” Harry cuts in, face warm.

Hailee looks smug. “So, I ask again, what’s the occasion?”

“Maybe I just want to do something nice for Niall to prove I love him more than you do,” Harry huffs and sticks his tongue out.

“Impossible,” Hailee dismisses easily. “Keep trying.”

“What do you think says _I’m sorry I’m such a shit flatmate but I’m trying my best and now that I’ve got some free time I can spend it making sure your stag do is perfect_ more, raspberry jam or blackberry?”

Hailee frowns, contemplative. “Is the raspberry organic?”

“They both are.”

“Blackberry.”

Harry nods thoughtfully and places the jar on the table.

“So,” Hailee concludes, “this is a guilt-induced full English.”

“No better way to get back on Niall’s good side than through his stomach.” Harry shrugs.

“Not that I don’t agree,” Hailee says slowly, “but did it maybe occur to you that what Niall wants more than toast is for you to apologize and promise to try and compromise?”

Harry glares at her for being so painfully insightful this early in the morning. He just wanted to drown all his problems in perfectly crispy bacon. “There’s nothing Niall loves more than brekkie.”

“The _Eagles_ ,” Hailee counters.

Harry sniffs. “Touché. You win this round, Steinfeld.”

Hailee preens. “But back to what I was saying. Maybe instead of bribing his stomach, you should try appealing to his, I don’t know, heart.” She waves a vague hand. “Or whatever.”

Harry continues to carve an apple in the shape of a cherry blossom and doesn’t answer.

“He’s mad at you because he loves you,” Hailee continues in a softer voice. “He’s just looking out for you because he wants you to be happy. We both do.” When Harry resolutely examines his fruit artwork instead of answering, she sighs. “Just think about it.”

“Think about what?” Niall asks, wandering in wearing nothing but joggers and scratching at his belly.

“Nothing,” Hailee answers quickly, popping out of her seat for a sweet kiss.

Harry rolls his eyes when one peck leads to another and another but lets them have their moment. Lord knows it beats having to hear them go at it at night. He never thought coming home early could possibly have any downsides, but the thin flat walls have proven otherwise.

“If you two don’t quit it, I’m going to invite Mitch and Clare over to eat all this with me,” Harry threatens when Niall’s hands drift down towards Hailee’s bum and her fingers reach for the waistband of his joggers.

Niall pulls away almost immediately. “Sorry, Haz. Oooh, a full English breakfast. What’re you apologizing for this time?”

Hailee throws Harry an _I told you so_ look.

“That’s not—” Harry throws up his hands in defeat and slumps over to pick petulantly at his bowl of papaya. “I just wanted to do something nice since I don’t go in ‘till noon today.”

Niall almost chokes on his orange juice, and Hailee thumps him on the back without looking up from her phone. “Noon? What the fuck, Harry. Has Liam finally gone and bit it and been replaced by someone sensible?”

“No, but I don’t question it. Don’t look a gift zebra in the mouth and all.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how the maxim goes,” Hailee whispers in Niall’s ear, but Niall just shakes his head. It’s not worth the twenty minutes of wide-eyed confusion and futile Google searches that would ensue. He nudges her plate closer to her.

After polishing off the food, Hailee announces her plans for a shower with a significant look at Harry, who ignores her, and a quick forehead peck for Niall, who squints suspiciously.

Once the bathroom door clicks shut, Harry continues to nibble on his crust until Niall finally says, “So, are we just gonna keep pretending that you and Haiz were talking about nothing when I came in or…?”

“Depends,” Harry evades, eyes shifty.

“On what?”

“If you’re still mad at me even though I cooked for you.”  

Niall sighs heavily and starts to clear the dishes. “I’m not mad at you, Harry.”

“You sounded pretty mad at the engagement party,” Harry mutters, binning the napkins and empty orange juice carton.

“I’m just,” Niall looks around for the sponge until Harry points him in the right direction. “Why was it under the—you know what, never mind.” He switches on the tap. “The point is, I’m frustrated. It’s frustrating, you know, watching you slave away at this job you don’t even like. Don’t try to argue, Harry. You hate it; I know you do because you’ve spent the past how many years complaining about it when you’re not asleep on your feet.”

“Fine, so it’s not my dream job,” Harry concedes, grabbing a towel to dry with. “So what?” He grabs the plate Niall hands him and attacks it with the towel with perhaps more vigor than warranted. “We can’t all have a perfect life, marry a perfect girl, and work at a perfect job to buy a bloody perfect house, alright?” The words spit out bitter like battery acid, burning on the way up and leaving a sour taste in Harry’s mouth.

Niall flinches, soapy bubbles dribbling down his forearm to drip off his elbow. He lets the water run to fill the stiff silence until he gathers the courage to say in a small voice, “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

Harry grimaces and reaches over to flick off the water. “I saw one of the open house flyers on the table. Haiz must’ve left it here on accident.”

Niall turns to face him, unhappiness creasing his forehead and guilt souring his mouth. “Harry, I—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Harry cuts him off in a tight voice. “Don’t apologize for doing everything right, Niall.”

“Haz, I was gonna tell you, I swear,” Niall implores. “You have to believe me. But it just never felt like the right time, and then the engagement threw everything up in the air for a while, and—”

“Niall,” Harry groans, “stop. You got the girl; you got the house.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to stop you from moving in with your bloody fiancée. I’m so happy for you and Haiz, you know that, and I knew we weren’t going to be roommates forever.” He takes a shuddering breath, fisting the dishcloth so tightly his knuckles ache. “I’d just hoped I was a little more put together when it happened. Didn’t think I’d still have no idea what the fuck I wanted to do with my life, but…” Harry shrugs and pastes on a limp smile. “Shit happens, yeah?”

“Harry,” Niall places a foamy hand on Harry’s shoulder and pulls the towel from his grasp, “you can do anything you put your fucking mind to. Even if your heart’s not in accounting anymore, so what? Go back to school, get an apprenticeship, whatever the fuck you want, mate. I’m behind you. All I want is to see the kid I graduated from uni with again, the kid who was so excited by everything he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do first.”

Harry’s lips quirk up for real this time around, nostalgic for when it felt like the whole world had laid itself out at his and Niall’s fingertips. But the feeling soon evaporates, leaving Harry to frown at Niall. “It’s not that easy.”

“Bullshit it’s not,” Niall retorts fiercely, drawing his hand back to cross his arms over his chest. “The only one stopping you from ending your own misery is you, Haz. How long are you going to wallow?”

“I’ve got bills and taxes and shit,” Harry insists, irritation stirring low in his gut. “This isn’t a movie. I can’t just fuck off from my steady, paying job. Especially now that I’ve got twice the amount of rent once you leave.” It’s a low blow, Harry knows. He’ll probably just end up moving out to find a smaller, cheaper flat in all honesty. But, for a moment, ugly satisfaction curls in his cavernous chest at the guilt contorting Niall’s stricken face.

“I’m not asking you to quit and travel the world or some shite,” Niall bites out, patience wearing thin. “I’m just saying you should quit before you wake up one day and realize you’ve wasted your whole life behind a desk.”

Although this argument is an old one, well worn like a favorite pair of trainers, it feels different this time, dialed up to eleven. Like everything has led up to this crackling tension that won’t simply dissipate with him and Harry at an impasse. Something has to give.

“Oh, so that’s what I’m doing, is it?” Harry can’t control how his voice raises. Something hurt and volatile bubbles up inside him, hissing when it splashes against the sides of his ribcage and singes his organs. “Wasting away? Because I’m some poor sod with a nine-to-five who’s watching his dreams shrivel and die everyday?” He rolls his eyes and storms away from the sink full of dirty dishes just for something to do with the furious energy vibrating under his skin, aching for release.

Niall follows him out of the kitchen. “See, that’d only be true if you worked an eight hour work day like a normal fucking human being.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to be normal,” Harry spits, stomping out into the modest living area. “Thought you hated my desk job.”

Niall growls, “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then what do you mean?” Harry rounds the sofa for some sort of barrier, some sort of protection, and whirls around to glare at Niall.

“What I fucking mean, Harry,” Niall slaps his hands down on the back of the couch, “is that you need to stop punishing yourself for Robin’s death!”

The flat goes painfully still, silence creeping over them like a stifling blanket.

“This has nothing to do with Robin,” Harry says in a quiet voice. The words hardly fill the room. They settle and wither under the weight of the tension, unable to stand on their own—pathetic lies that Harry can’t hide behind anymore.

“Then tell me what it has to do with,” Niall says in an equally soft tone, like any harshness could shatter the fragile place they’ve come to. “Because I’m so lost, Harry. A week before he passed, you were so excited to quit. You had your letter of resignation all written up. You didn’t even know where you’d go, but you’d had enough, you told me so yourself. What changed?”

“He died, Niall.” Harry collapses onto the sofa like his legs can’t hold him up for one more awful moment. He folds over, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “Everything changed.”

It takes everything in Niall to hold back, not to bundle Harry into his arms and hold him until he stops looking like a puff of wind could shake him apart.

“I realized I had to help take care of Mum, and a stupid minimum wage job at the bakery wasn’t going to do that. Things go to shit in a second, and I—” Harry’s voice trembles. “I had to be prepared if she or Gemma needed my help.” He has to focus on somehow drawing breath despite the grief crushing his windpipe, so he misses the pain flickering over Niall’s features. He doesn’t see how Niall’s knuckles go white with how hard he squeezes the couch to anchor himself.

“And it felt like such a waste, you know?” Harry sniffs, voice thick and snotty. “He helped pay for more than his fair share of my uni loans. And then he wasn’t even mad when I graduated with no fucking plan at all. He just clapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was interested at all in working for this place called First Time Records.” Harry chokes out a wet, humorless laugh. “That’s loads more than my own dad ever did. And I’m just supposed to throw all that away?”

Niall moves then, nearly trips and brains himself on the coffee table in his haste to make his way to Harry and wrap him up in the tightest hug he can manage. “Pursuing what makes you happy isn’t throwing anything away,” Niall says, low and fierce. “Robin would support you more than anyone else if he knew you were going to work in a bakery if that’s what you want, Haz. He’d probably complain that you bring over too many sweets, but he’d be so fucking proud.”

“You think?”

Niall can barely make out Harry’s whisper. He kisses the top of Harry’s head. “Yeah, petal, I do.”

They stay there for a time, Harry sniffling and Niall pretending he doesn’t feel his shirt getting damp.

After a bit, Hailee creeps out from Niall’s bedroom. She stops to press matching kisses to their foreheads. Then she pads into the kitchen to put on a kettle because Niall proposed to an actual angel. In no time, she has the three of them bundled on the couch under the thick afghan Harry’s nan knitted last Christmas. The tea steams pleasantly, easing Harry’s sinuses. A golf match Niall recorded plays low on the telly, Harry’s eyes drooping too low for him to complain like he normally would. He slumps deeper and deeper into the cushions until Hailee plucks his wobbling mug from his lax hands to safely deposit it on the coffee table.

Over Harry’s nodding head, bobbing every now and then as he slips in and out of a doze, Hailee mouths, _Okay?_ at Niall.

He nods back. _Alright. Thanks._

She nods, content, and resigns herself to a couple hours of Harry drooling on her shoulder while watching the most boring sport known to man. A couple minutes in, she catches Niall watching her—face unbearably soft and fond in a way that makes Hailee’s heart thump as erratically as the first time she saw him—and Hailee realizes there’s nothing she’d rather be doing.

* * *

“What the hell is this?”

Louis freezes on his way out the door. “Er,” he glances at the pile of files he dropped off on Zayn’s desk. “The latest proposals from brands that want adverts in our next issue.”

“Which I specifically told you to forward to Mosely because I don’t have time to look through all this crap.” Zayn shakes a manila folder and flings it across the room, papers scattering out to flutter to the ground like limp butterflies.

Zayn had communicated no such thing, but Louis isn’t about to be the one to tell him that. “Yes, of course, Mr. Malik. So sorry about that, sir.” He bends down to hurriedly collect the sheets. Zayn’s been in such a good mood lately, taking half days or at least letting Louis off at a decent hour, that Louis had almost forgotten how terrifying his scowl looks. He hasn’t seen Zayn this stroppy since Louis’ first weeks working for _Zap!_ when he kept screwing up the email blasts to different teams. In Louis’ defense, all of Zayn’s contacts had emojis instead of names for no discernible reason.

Before he can scuttle out of the room to the safety of his desk, Zayn growls, “Is that a Rita Ora advert?”

Louis blinks and shuffles through the papers. Sure enough, Rita’s sultry pout comes into view with a date for her sophomore album. Her lip gloss shines extra bright on the laminated page. “Oh, yes, it looks like it.”

“Of fucking course.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “It’s just like him to send over something to remind me that he’s got a master plan to adhere to. He always has to think about the label. God forbid if I fuck it all up by not having everything planned down to the last fucking second.”

Louis hesitates. “Sir?”

“Bin it,” Zayn snarls, slamming his hands on his desk and pointing at the door. “Get it out of my office, and get out of my sight!”

Louis fumbles and almost drops the whole mess of papers. “Yes, right away, sir. Sorry.” He darts out the door to find a safe place to store the adverts until Zayn calms down. Shit mood or not, they can’t exactly afford to ignore brands willing to pay them for a coveted spot in the magazine.

When he finds some extra space in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, Louis barely has time to breathe out a sigh of relief when he hears his name. Bracing himself, Louis slinks back into the office.

“Tell me, Louis,” Zayn says in a hard voice, the kind of voice that tells Louis he has to tread with the utmost care if he wants to come out of this with his job intact, “if someone is late to dinner or doesn’t text you back right away because their insomnia has finally calmed the fuck down and they want to sleep for a couple hours, do they deserve to get screamed at about punctuality and attentiveness?”

“No, sir.”

“And if someone likes to leave things open for spontaneity occasionally, should they get a lecture on organization?”

“No, sir, of course not.”

“It would make sense that if someone is the successful head of their own Goddamn company, they’d likely already know how to file paperwork and send emails. It’s not fucking multivariable calculus.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Exactly. It’s common sense. Now,” Zayn reaches for the cup sitting on his desk, “if only,” he takes a tiny sip, “someone had told,” his hands tighten around the drink, “Liam bloody Payne that!” Louis flinches as Zayn whips the coffee towards the wall with an almighty smash. Cracks spiderweb across the glass. The projectile mug sacrifice lays shattered on the ground, stale coffee seeping out like blood from a wound. Zayn’s shoulders heave with his barely contained fury. Then he straightens up and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re excused,” he dismisses Louis. Finally, he opens his laptop and begins to type like nothing is amiss.

After he escapes the room, Louis whispers, “What the _fuck_?” to himself. Then he does it again just for lack of anything better to do. He doesn’t know if he feels like risking his life to sneak in and clean up the ceramic carnage, so instead Louis slumps into his chair and picks up his work line.

“Hello. Styles Nuptial Ornithology Specialist. You got the love, we got the doves.”

“Harry, there’s no time for your weirdness. Zayn’s lost his mind. I know I say that a lot, but this time I’m not kidding.”

“If it’s not worse than Liam boxing a punching bag so hard it broke off the chain, crashed into the mirror, and crushed the rowing machine, I don’t even want you to talk to me.”

“Zayn threw a mug at his wall.”

“Liam sent Simon an email with nothing but the middle finger emoji.”

“Simon Cowell?”

“No, Simon Says. Yes, Simon Cowell, Louis. I’m setting up a month’s worth of apology gift baskets as we speak. Do you think Simon likes lemon scented candles or cinnamon buns more?”

“Uh…”

“You’re right, I should do both.”

“No, wait, Harry, listen” Louis says, trying to derail Harry before he gets into a groove and Louis has to listen to the history of essential bath oils. Again. “Has, uh, Liam mentioned why he’s in such a shit mood?”

“No. I don’t know what you and Malik get up to, but me and Liam don’t exactly sit down for heart-to-hearts over tea and digestive biscuits.”

Louis rolls his eyes. He hopes Harry can feel his exasperation over the phone. “I’m just trying to figure out why Zayn’s just screamed at me about Liam and then threw me out of his office.”

“What?”

“Exactly what I said. Now go see if you can suss out on your end why our bosses have lost their fucking minds.”

“I didn’t sign up to become a detective.”

“And I didn’t sign up to be Zayn’s therapist, but you don’t see me complaining.”

“You rang me to do nothing but complain.”

“And now I’m hanging up on you. Good luck.”

* * *

“God, he’s just so infuriating, you know, Harry? It’s like he doesn’t even take this seriously. I’m trying to make this work, and he just blows it off. Sorry if I’d rather make dinner reservations than sit around and smoke. Weed makes me paranoid, and the last thing I need is more stress.”

After thirty minutes of this, Harry is starting to see what Louis meant about not wanting to double as a shrink. Harry has already heard much more about Zayn’s vexing sleep habits and affinity for abstract art than he ever wanted to. Apparently he kicks in his sleep and frames blobs of ink around his house that Liam pretends to appreciate.

“But the sex is so great,” Liam sighs, pen going slack in his fingers.

Harry really needs Liam to finish signing the documents so he can leave before Liam begins waxing poetic about Zayn’s dick. He notes that they haven’t even started to put a dent in the towering stack and internally sighs.

“But he wants to get a skull tattoo, Harry. A tattoo on his skull!” Liam continues, putting down his pen again. “Can I get serious with someone who’s mental enough to want a tattoo gun that close to their head?”

“Maybe,” Harry evades, sliding the paper closer to Liam until he scrawls out another loopy signature. “It’s hard to tell. I don’t know much about your relationship with Mr. Malik. I only found out a couple days ago.”

“It’s new,” Liam admits. “We’ve only been seeing each other for a couple months. Is it bad that we’re already having our first fight? That can’t be a good omen for a relationship.”

“I think it’s worse when couples never fight,” Harry replies honestly. “That means they aren’t talking about anything real. They’re just pretending everything is perfect, bottling it up until it explodes.”

Liam pauses again. Harry bites back a sigh. “I suppose I never thought about it like that before.”

Harry slyly reaches for the next document even though Liam hasn’t finished with the one in front of him. The movement seems to jar Liam back into action. Harry internally fist pumps.

“Sorry I’m unloading all this on you,” Liam says after a while. Harry’s heart sinks when Liam’s pen-holding hand slows down as he talks. “I’d normally just tell Perrie, but she’s,” Liam makes a face, “with Zayn.”

Harry makes a vague, sympathetic noise in the back of his throat.

“Not that you’re not great, Harry, but I do wish she was here. I’d like to know her thoughts on all this.”

So preoccupied with feeding Liam paper after paper now that they’ve got a proper rhythm going, Harry doesn’t think when he mutters under his breath, “She’d probably try to send you two off to Nantucket to work things out.”

Liam startles. “What was that?”

Harry doesn’t answer right away, too busy trying not to scream when Liam stops once again. He glances at the clock in the corner of the room and tries not to wilt when he sees they’ve been at this for most of an hour now.

Liam prompts him again. “Harry.”

“Huh? Oh, it was nothing. Miss Edwards just accidentally sent me an email the other day. Some advert for a holiday on an island off the east coast of America. Very small place. I think they’ve got, like, a whaling museum and a lighthouse and things. She said she was looking into it for her sister and her brother-in-law. They’ve been looking for a little getaway from the kids. Forget I mentioned it.”

But Liam’s forehead wrinkles like it does when he’s onto something—a catchy melody or a verse with untapped potential. “A holiday in America? Do you think that would work?”

“Er.” Now it’s Harry’s turn to frown in confusion. “Work?”

“For me and Zayn,” Liam explains, speaking quicker now as his excitement grows. “Do you think that’s what we need? To get past this,” he waves his hand vaguely, “this funk we’re in. A weekend away.”

Harry is 100% sure that relationship problems don’t get solved by going on impromptu holidays, but he certainly wouldn’t mind shipping Liam off to the States for a couple days. “I think,” Harry says slowly, “a bit of time from the stress of the office couldn’t hurt.” It’s not a lie, even if it’s not the whole truth of Harry’s opinion.

Liam’s eyes gleam eagerly, and Harry almost cracks, almost lets slip that this isn’t a magic fix to a doomed relationship between two workaholics. “Nantucket you said?”

Harry nods dumbly, biting his tongue because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“Great.” Liam claps his hands together. “Tell Perrie to send you the details so you can book us a plane.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Harry has never been a plus-one to a posh model-infested pool party before. Actually, he’s technically a plus-two because Louis is his girlfriend’s plus-one and Harry is Louis’ plus-one, but semantics. The point is, Harry didn’t even know London could get this ritzy. He’s pretty sure people this beautiful aren’t supposed to exist outside of Instagram.

“Would you shut your jaw? Are you trying to catch flies?” Louis hisses from the corner of his mouth. He leans away from where Eleanor chats with a stunningly fit bird to pinch at one of Harry’s nipples. He’s got so many, sometimes Louis has trouble choosing. Today, he goes lower left.

Harry squirms away with a yelp. “It’s not my fault. You’ve brought me to a place full of superhumans when you know full well that I haven’t had a proper shag in months.”

“Months?” Incredulity pinches Louis’ eyebrows. “This is our, like, fourth month of freedom. What’ve you been doing with all that time, young Harold?”

“Planning Niall’s stag do, reminding my friends I haven’t died and/or fallen off the edge of the Earth, catching up on Netflix—did you know we’re up to fourteen seasons of _Grey’s Anatomy_?”

Louis stares, dumbfounded. “You do know that literally the first day we had off, I went home and fucked my girlfriend senseless?”

“I do now. And I haven’t got a girlfriend, so that’s not fair.”

“My point, dear Haroldini, is that there’s no time like the present to find yourself one. Now go get another drink and maybe chat up the bartender while you’re over there. She’s well fit, go on now.”

“But,” Harry frowns at the beer in his hand, “I’ve not finished this one.”

Louis grabs the can, chugs it down, and chucks it away. “There.” Louis wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Harry looks on with fascination and mild disgust. “Now off you go.”

And so Harry carefully weaves his way through the crowd, dodging pissed people swaying to the DJ’s mix and trying not to fall into the pool. With a pinch of luck and more grace than Harry knew he possessed, he finds his way to the open bar situated in the corner of the poolside deck.

“What’ll it be, sweet?” asks the blond woman with a friendly smile and easy eyes. Even done up in a simple white button-up, black waistcoat, and matching black tie, she doesn’t look too out of place amongst the models with her pale eyes and full lips. Somehow she makes the tacky uniform look effortlessly on par with the designer swim costumes around them.

Harry takes advantage of Louis’ absence to order something fruity and brightly colored without getting the piss taken out of him. He takes a sip for good luck, smacks his lips, and asks, “So, how does someone as beautiful as you get stuck working behind the bar?”

She smiles a little ruefully. “Gotta pay the bills somehow. My boyfriend’s between jobs right now, and these gigs have quite good tips once everyone’s liquored up.” She taps a nearly empty bottle for emphasis. Harry nods, a little put out that she’s taken but not at all surprised. Her lilting French accent sounds dead sexy, with stormy eyes to boot.

Though no longer out to pull, Harry finds himself drawn into conversation anyway because he really is interested to see what chain of events led their paths to intersect at this extravagant party’s gummy bartop. He finds out Camille was born in Paris, but has traveled all over to Milan, Tokyo, and Copenhagen. She modeled in the past but hit a rough patch. For now, she bides her time with crummy jobs until she can find an agency to pick her back up again.

“And what about you, Harry?” she asks after serving the gaggle of girls who stumbled over. They thank her profusely, tip generously, and totter off. “What’re you up to these days?” It comes out easily, like they’re old friends catching up instead of strangers making small talk after a failed attempt to flirt.

“Having fun with you,” he says to see her grin. Then he shrugs. “Trying to relax and celebrate not having to work this weekend. My boss is off to Nantucket for a romantic getaway with his boyfriend.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Yeah, bit of a miracle, really. Just a little depressing that he’s getting more action than me.”

Camille raises an eyebrow. “We can fix that, darling.” She assesses him, nodding thoughtfully. “With your face,” she leans over to poke his dimple, “easily.”  

He huffs and swats her hand away. “I tried, and you have a boyfriend. In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t gone to pull in a long while. I’m a bit rusty.”

“We just need to find you someone else,” she encourages. “Preferably single this time.” She scans the tipsy crowd, eyes keen. “What’re you looking for?”

“Someone fun for the night.”

“How about a guy with dark hair, long legs, and a shirt nearly as atrocious as yours?”

“Heeeeey,” Harry protests. He quite likes the silky polka dot look. It feels nice fluttering against his skin where he’s left it unbuttoned. He tugs on his bottom lip. “Well, that was uncannily specific.”

“Don’t look now,” Camille mutters conspiratorially, wiping the countertop sticky with vodka and citrus juice. “But he’s at your four o’clock.”

It takes Harry a moment to visualize his clock and find the right number, but then he peeks over his shoulder. Sure enough, Tall-Dark-and-Hawaiian-Print raises his glass to Harry behind his Ray-Bans and takes a lazy sip.

Harry jerks his head away when Camille _thwaps_ him with her towel. “I said don’t look now!”

“I panicked!”

“Well, then now might not be the best time to tell you he’s coming over here.”

“What?” Harry sneaks another look and squeaks when he sees the man approaching. “Camille,” he grabs her wrist, “don’t you dare leave me.”

“I thought this was what you wanted,” she shakes him off with a cheshire grin, “to find a fit boy to take home.”

“Hypothetically!” Harry hisses, panic ballooning in his chest so rapidly he feels dizzy. “Not someone as fit as him. When you’re out of practice, you don’t ease back into it with a bloody ten!”

“Well, get over it,” Camille says bracingly, patting his cheek, “because this ten’s walking up to you in three, two, one.”

Right on cue, a new voice chimes, “I’ll take whatever he’s having.” An empty glass clinks onto the bar.

Harry gulps and eyes the man who rests his elbows on the bar much closer to Harry than he needs to, considering the loads of empty counter beside him. Harry rounds a pleading look on Camille, who just winks and dips out to grab a new glass.

“I’d offer to buy, but bar’s free, so.”

“I, er, that’s awful nice.” Harry clears his throat awkwardly and clings to his lemon drop. He doesn’t know who’s sweating more, him or his cocktail. He feels painfully out of his element surrounded by supermodels without Louis or Camille to ease the obvious way he doesn’t belong here—knees too knobby, hair too unruly, hips too pudgy.

“I’m Nick.” He extends his hand, which Harry takes.

“Harry.”

“What agency are you with? I don’t recognize you.”

Harry can’t help but scoff. “Mate, even I know that this gig’s for exclusively women models. Don’t tell me that line actually works.”

Nick grins, big and pearly. He slips his sunnies up to his forehead to reveal long lashes. “Depends.” He leans closer, and his hazel eyes flicker with the shifting sunlight. “Will you let me buy you another free drink?”

Harry feels endeared despite himself at how Nick’s easy smile matches up to the lines around his mouth. “I suppose so.”

Camille smirks, slides over the first drink, and goes to work on the next. Harry can see her fiddling with the vodka, leaving them to talk.

Nick leans back, looking pleased, but stays close to Harry’s side, their arms nearly brushing. “So, Harry, tell me, if you’re not a model, then what do you do?”

“I work at a record label, First Time Records. Have you heard of it?”

“Oh, have I been talking to a proper popstar, then? Should I have tipped off _The_ _Sun_?”

“Not unless modern popstardom has devolved into mountains of paperwork and midnight errand runs,” Harry snorts inelegantly.

“Shame,” Nick shrugs, “you’ve got the eyes for it.”

Harry feels the tips of his ears go pink. “Well,” he bumbles on bashfully, “I think I’d much rather be a baker anyway.”

And somehow, between Nick revealing he DJs London’s underground gay bars for a living and Harry confessing he doesn’t know what Snapchat is, Harry finds himself leaving the bar area with Nick. Camille mouths _use protection_ , so Harry flips her off while she cackles.

With a light hand to his elbow, Nick flits Harry between chattering groups. He introduces Harry to so many people that their jumbled names bump around in Harry’s head and roll right out. Pixie just sounds an awful lot like Fifi when Harry’s had this much to drink, so he just nods along or risks getting lost. Besides, he doesn’t need to know names and faces to laugh when they rib Nick about the time he DJed a cycling class and his addiction to sliding into Rita Ora’s Twitter DMs.

Nick whines at Greg’s jibes and leans into Harry, who dutifully wraps a protective arm around his shoulder and pats his back in a consoling manner. Nick doesn’t lean away from Harry even after the attention shifts to Finchy’s latest rant about avocado toast. Harry doesn’t mind and bites back a smile when Nick’s hand finds his waist.

With the barrier broken, the touches come faster after that. Harry likes to hide his giggles into the side of Nick’s neck. Nick tugs at the hem of Harry’s shirt before slipping his fingers underneath, plainly visible through the sheer material. Harry traces the long line of Nick’s thigh when they find a lounger to collapse onto. Nick tucks an errant curl behind Harry’s ear, fingertips lingering on the delicate skin.

“Have to wee,” Harry mumbles into Nick’s ear after a while, all the drinks catching up to him. “Be right back.” It takes him a couple minutes of wandering down corridors and three wrong turns to realize he has no idea where the toilets are. Finally admitting defeat and wondering if he should chance a potted plant, Harry starts back towards the pool to seek help. He turns a corner and nearly crashes headlong into—“Nick!”

Nick reaches out to steady him with a hand at his waist, and Harry grasps at his shoulders for balance.

“Did you have to go too?” Harry asks. “We could’ve gone together, you know. Might’ve done, since I have no idea where I’m going.”

“And let everyone know what we were up to? Where’s the fun in that?”

“What we’re up to?” Harry echoes in bemusement. “Is weeing supposed to a secret? Is that, like, a model thing?” He frowns harder. “Because I’ve already told everyone. Sorry.”

Nick takes a step back, chewing on his bottom lip. “I think, um, I’ve misread the situation.” He lets his hands drop from Harry’s hips.

Then, it starts to click for Harry. “Oh.” He licks his lips nervously. “Did you think, when I said I was going to the toilets, that I wanted you to, like, follow me?”

Nick crosses his arms petulantly. “Well, that’s what it usually means when the fit person you’ve spent all day with makes bedroom eyes at you and says they’re going off alone.”

Harry giggles at that. “I was not making bedroom eyes!”

“You,” Nick sidles close again, leaning in to brush his nose against Harry’s cheek, “most certainly were. And how was I to resist?”

“I really want to kiss you,” Harry confesses, lips a hair's breadth away from Nick’s. “But my bladder might actually explode, so do you know where the toilets are?”

Nick groans, forehead thunking on Harry’s shoulder.

“Nick, this is rapidly becoming an emergency!”

“Yeah, yeah, popstar. C’mon.”

Afterwards, while washing his hands, Harry inspects his reflection. The tip of his nose looks a little rosy, but overall his skin doesn’t appear too sunburnt. In the mirror, he sees Nick’s mischievous grin just before he flicks water at Harry.

“Heyyyy.”

“That’s what you get for having me on,” Nick sniffs before turning to dry his hands.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry whines. “It honestly didn’t even cross my mind how it came off. It’s been a while.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Since you propositioned with someone to get off in a public toilet? Good for you, darling.”

“Since I’ve even found someone to proposition to.”

Nick grins. “So I’m special, then?”

“I’d like to think so.” Harry wipes his hands on his shorts.

Nick scoots closer, boxing Harry in against the sink.

Harry squirms to turn around, presses up against Nick’s chest, rests a hand on the back of his neck. It’s the easiest thing in the world to flutter his eyes shut, lean in, and press his lips against Nick’s. He tastes sweet like lemon drop he ordered for Harry, lips soft, tongue curious. Harry sighs and lets Nick lick into his mouth, grip Harry’s hips, and push forward. The porcelain sink digs into Harry’s back, but he can’t feel bothered by it when Nick’s fingers tangle in his hair and tilt his head to find a better angle.

Their hips twitch and shift, and the hot, wet sounds of the kiss have Harry half-hard almost embarrassingly quick. He wasn’t kidding when he told Louis it had been a while, so he can’t help the whimper he lets out when Nick nudges a thigh between his legs.

“Fuck,” Harry pants as Nick nips down his jaw to his neck. “Nick, I—” Nick’s big hand drags down his chest to squeeze him through his shorts, and Harry loses his train of thought.

“Can I?” Nick tugs at his waistband.

“Yes, yeah.” Harry nods, a little dazed. Sweat prickles at his hairline despite the aircon, and makes his shiver. He lets out a low moan when Nick easily slips his shorts open and tugs his pants down just enough to get his dick out.

“Fuck,” Nick says with feeling, wrapping a hand around Harry, thumbing at the tip. “Knew you’d have a pretty cock.”

Harry shudders, stomach contracting, and leans back against the sink for support. His head thumps against the mirror. He closes his eyes against the wicked sensation of Nick’s hand squeezing along him, fingers following a vein. His free hand squeezes Harry’s hip, runs up his chest to push aside his flimsy shirt, dances along his nipples until Harry gasps.

“Nick,” Harry groans, hips jerking forward into Nick’s grip. “Nick, please.”

“I got you,” Nick soothes, hand setting a steady pace. He curves closer to Harry to lick along his collarbones, follow the dips of his chest.

It’s so much too fast, and Harry can feel the arousal curling hot and tight behind his navel. “Close,” he tries to warn, straightening up for a kiss.

Nick indulges him with a wet slide of lips, heavy and heady as Harry slowly slips closer to his orgasm. Nick’s wanks him faster, his own hard length presses into Harry’s hip, and Harry comes with a long moan, curling forward.

Nick eases him through it, gentles the kiss until Harry slumps forward to puff against his neck. Nick presses easy kisses to Harry’s damp temple, combs through his hair until Harry catches his breath.

“Shit.” Harry straightens up, pushes his hair back.

“What a glowing recommendation,” Nick snarks, easy smirk at odds with the insistent roll of his hips against Harry’s thigh.

“Ten out of ten,” Harry agrees seriously, fingers fumbling with the button of Nick’s shorts. “Would let wank me off again. Hopefully many times.”

But before he can so much as grope Nick through his pants, footsteps sound outside the door to the toilets. Nick springs back, and Harry mutters a curse and tucks himself away in record time. By the time the time the man walks over to the urinals, Nick is washing his hands while Harry whistles innocently at the paper towel dispenser. They duck out soon after and make it to the end of the hallway before bursting into laughter.

“I’m reducing you to a nine out of ten for almost letting a complete stranger see my dick.”

“I was a complete stranger a couple hours ago,” Nick points out.

“You’ve had your hand on my dick. We’re hardly strangers.”

Nick pouts, dramatically jutting out his lower lip. “You haven’t touched mine, which I think is hardly fair.”

Harry wets his lips, leans into Nick. “We can fix that.”

* * *

Louis means to keep an eye on Harry, he really does. He’s a good wingman, damn it. He doesn’t send his friends over to chat up cute girls without giving supportive thumbs-ups from afar. Except apparently when Eleanor’s friend implies that England’s football team won’t make it past the knockout stage of the World Cup this year. Then all of Louis’ wingman principles fly out the window because he will not stand for that nonsense. He doesn’t give a flying fuck if she’s one of the highest paid models in America. No one gets away with that shit.

They really get into it, this being one of the first conversations Louis feels like he can hold his own in all afternoon. He feels a bit bored after hours of nodding politely while everyone talks about photographers he’s never heard of and brands he’s maybe seen on Eleanor’s vanity. Not that he doesn’t respect Eleanor’s work, but he doesn’t know the ins and outs of it enough to contribute much when Sophia brings up Alessandro Michele’s newest protégé. So no one can blame him for jumping at the chance to talk footie with Danielle, loosening his easy arm around Eleanor’s waist to lean towards her. In his excited gesturing, he accidentally sloshes his lager. It narrowly misses her flowy sundress, but splashes on their feet.

“Oh, love, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes immediately, face flushed with embarrassment. He doesn’t care much for his ratty trainers, but he bets even her simple sandals cost an arm and a leg.

“It’s fine,” she laughs easily, waving him away. “Let me just go clean up.” She wiggles her sticky toes, then winks. “But I’ll be back. Don’t think you’re getting off the hook this easy.”

“Let me help,” Louis offers immediately. “Least I could do.” He extends his arm, which she takes after giving him a long look. He guides her towards the bar, where Harry’s cute blond bird provides water and a clean flannel. Louis situates Danielle on a pool lounger and gets to work dampening the cloth with the water. Luckily her sandals are shiny like vinyl, so the beer hasn’t soaked in and wipes off easily.

Danielle gets to work on scrubbing her feet and says, “You really didn’t need to do this, you know.”

“It’s no problem.” Louis sticks out the tip of his tongue to concentrate on mopping up all the remains of the beer.

“I mean,” Danielle straightens up to level him with a solemn look, “I don’t want to get in the way of anything.”

“What do you mean?” Louis tips his head, hands stilling.

“You can’t be serious.”

Louis just stares at her some more, brow furrowed.

“God,” she shakes her head, “men are so stupid sometimes. Actually, make that all the time.” Louis doesn’t even waste the breath to protest. He grew up in a household of women. That isn’t the worst thing he’s heard about his gender, not by a long shot. “Did you see the look on Eleanor’s face when you tried to help me?”

“No.”

“Well, she looked like she could slit my throat in my sleep. And possibly yours too.”

Louis blinks. “Did she?”

“Exactly.” Danielle points an accusatory finger at his face. “That’s your first problem, in fact. You haven’t even looked at her in, like, years.”

“Because I was talking to you,” Louis argues. “It’s rude not to look at someone you’re talking to.”

“No, what’s rude,” Danielle replies, “is leaving your girlfriend with another girl on your arm.”

Louis’ mouth falls open. “I threw my drink all over you! Sorry I didn’t tell you to naff off.”

“I know that.” Danielle rolls her eyes. “I know it’s because you’re a nice guy, but think about what Eleanor saw. We’ve been talking nonstop about a topic she doesn’t know as well as I do and then we leave the group on our own.”

“Huh.” Louis hadn’t thought about it like that. “Okay, fair point. But El’s not like that. She doesn’t get jealous. She knows I love her. We’ve been together since she was in uni.”

“Then why,” Danielle looks over Louis’ shoulder with a smug expression, “is she stomping over here with a murder face.”

“What?” Louis whips around. Sure enough, here comes Eleanor with a determined set to her mouth. A low hum of arousal lurches in Louis’ gut at the unfamiliar fire in her eyes.

“Or, for your sake, I hope it’s a _let me fuck you so good you won’t dare look at another woman for the rest of your life_ face.” Louis chokes, and Danielle laughs and shoves him to his feet. “Go get her, tiger. Jealous sex is the best sex.”

Louis flips her off, but hurries to meet Eleanor before she gets close enough to confront Danielle. “El,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “I know what it looked like, but I swear—”

She cuts him off with a searing kiss, fists in his shirt to drag him closer so he can feel her tits crushed against his chest. He almost stumbles with the force of it, groaning low into her mouth as his hands find her bare shoulder and curve of her arse to steady himself. She sucks on his bottom lip while he teases the edge of her bikini bottom, fingertips sneaking underneath to dig into sun-warm flesh.

“Fuck, El,” he whispers, stunned, when she leans back enough for him to catch his breath.

“That’s the idea, love,” she grins wickedly, delicate fingers trailing down his chest to where he’s twitching in his pants.

“Do,” Louis’ mouth feels abruptly dry in the face of Eleanor’s coy look under her lashes, “do you wanna get out of here?”

She bites her lip. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Louis feels so overwhelmed with Eleanor’s possessive grip on his hand, with willing himself not to get hard in public, that he almost misses the fiercely smug look she throws over her shoulder to where Danielle sprawls on the lounger. It’s so unexpected that a new wave of arousal hits Louis full in the chest, the idea that even after these years Eleanor still wants to fight for his attention. He hides a small smile into the delicate space behind her ear.

Outside on the pavement, they wait for the cab Louis called, and Louis shoots off a text to Harry to let him know they’ve dipped out early. He’d feel a little bad, but Louis’ pretty sure he spotted Harry disappearing off to the toilets with a dark-haired man in pursuit. Then, Louis’ phone chirps with Harry’s **No problem. See you later. Xx H** , and Louis stuffs it in his back pocket.

Eleanor seems to have lost some of her edge with Danielle all the way at the hotel’s rooftop pool. Louis squeezes her hand and reels her in to him so he can murmur, “So, that was kinda hot.”

Eleanor plays dumb. “What?”

Louis raises an eyebrow until her cheeks redden. She huffs and turns away, but Louis hugs her close. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize how I was making you feel. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it was stupid,” Eleanor huffs out without looking at him. “I know it was. Logically, I know you’d never go flirt with someone else, especially not right in front of me. And I’m not about to tell you who you can or can’t talk to. I’m not a controlling bitch. You’re your own person.”

“But?”

“But when you were talking to Danielle, it just reminded me about all the levels we don’t connect on,” she sighs and glances over her shoulder at him. “Like, not even just our work stuff, but even simple things like football.”

“And pineapple on pizza,” Louis adds to hear Eleanor chuckle.

“And pineapple on pizza, you heathen,” she agrees warmly.

“I’m the heathen?” Louis challenges in mock outrage. “I’m not the one putting a fruit on a pizza!”

“It’s sweet and savory!”

“It’s an abomination.” Louis sighs dramatically, woebegone. “Your dreadful tastebuds aside, I don’t need you to agree with me on everything to feel like we connect because where it matters; you know me better than anyone. You know my flat’s always in a tip, and I hate wearing socks, and I secretly don’t hate Grimmy as much as I say I do. But if you say anything,” he warns, “I will tell him who actually ate the last Hobnob last week.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes and pats Louis’ cheek condescendingly. “Like he’d believe you. Grimmy loves me.”

“As he should.” Louis leans in for a slow kiss, sweet and meandering without much of a destination. He sinks into the feeling Eleanor’s lips, familiar but just as intoxicating as the first time. They pull apart slowly, letting it wind down into puffing on the same air.

“I think,” Louis swallows, “you’re the only person who really gets why I’ve stuck with Zayn and _Zap!_ for so long. And I don’t think I could ever tell you how grateful I am for that.”

“He’s a piece of work, that Zayn. But I know you look up to him.” Eleanor’s face softens. “He’s got a lot of you in him.”

Louis scoffs.

“He does,” Eleanor insists. “You admire him because of how hard he had to fight to get to where he is now, past the bigots and the nonbelievers and the critics. Well, guess what, love.” She pokes him in the chest. “You had to do that too.”

“I don’t know if you can compare my life to him trying to make it in an industry that hates people of color and minority religions.”

“It’s not a competition. I’m not trying to demean Zayn in any way, but you’ve heard a lot of nos in your life too because you didn’t go to uni. You missed a lot of opportunities because you didn’t have the money or you had to help your mum with the kids. I’ve tried to be understanding of the long hours and erratic work schedule because that, that’s your chance.” Eleanor shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say that, to rip away Louis’ exterior and reveal all of his fuck ups, to love him anyway. “You might not get another shot.”

“Eleanor Calder, how am I supposed to go flirt with other girls to make you jealous so we can have mind-blowing sex when you keep reminding me that you are the love of my life?”

“We could skip the jealousy bit and get right to the sex,” she suggests with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.

“Love of my life and smart as hell.” Louis grins.

The cab ride back to Eleanor’s flat is a blur of wandering hands, Eleanor sighing against Louis’ lips, and Louis biting his lip to stifle any noise while she nips at his neck. Louis makes sure to leave the driver a generous tip for any indecency he may have seen when he checked the rearview mirror to change lanes. They tumble out onto the pavement in a whirlwind of laughter and clasped hands, the orange evening light slanting through the high-rises to sparkle in Eleanor’s eyes and glance off her cheeks.

Louis can’t help tasting her curving lips, palm pressed to her cheek to slow down their racing hearts for a moment. She indulges him for a beat in which nothing exists except for the two of them. The rest of the world dims to Eleanor’s eyelashes tickling his cheek and her nose nudging his. Then she bursts their private bubble to yank him up the stairs.

“This’d be much easier,” Eleanor grits out in a shaky voice, fingers fumbling with the key to the door, “if you’d quit doing that.”

Louis gives another cheeky hump forward, lets her feel how hard he is for her, relishes the way her breath hitches. “I’ll stop when you get the door open.”

The key finally clicks into place. “Liar,” Eleanor tosses over her shoulder before jerking him inside. She shuts the door and shrugs off her shawl just in time for Louis to shove her against it, mouth crushing against hers. She groans when his hand finds her hair, angling her head so he can suck on her tongue. When Louis presses forward in a dirty grind, Eleanor smirks. “Told you so, liar.”

“I can make it up to you,” Louis mumbles into her neck, fingers tracing over her swimsuit. He likes how her tit fits into his hand, nipple hard, how she squeezes her thighs together when he thumbs her clit through the thin material.

“I’m listening,” Eleanor says in a surprisingly steady voice that belies the way her stomach quivers as he circles her clit and drags down to feel where she’s damp and warm.

“I could fuck you on my fingers here, where anyone passing by could hear you,” Louis murmurs, tone conversational like he’s talking about where they should get dinner and not pushing aside her bottoms to trace her slick folds. “Let your neighbors hear how desperate you are.” He lets one finger sink into her. “Then I’ll take you to our room and fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow morning.”

Eleanor shudders against him, eyes fluttering shut. Her hands brace against his shoulders, like her legs might buckle.

“Would you like that, love?”

“Yes,” she rasps, hips jerking against his hand. “More, Louis.”

He obliges with another finger, crooking and scissoring them. The filthy slick noise they make almost gets drowned out by Eleanor’s moan.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Louis tells her flushed chest, free hand squeezing her hip. “Made for my fingers, for my dick, yeah, El?”

“Yeah,” Eleanor gasps out, hips finding a steady rhythm against Louis’ fingers. She hardly notices the discomfort of the engraved wood against her back with Louis biting her shoulder, thumb tracing around her clit, his prick rubbing against her hip. Her orgasm builds steadily, nudged forward when Louis adds a third finger and steals a heady kiss. Eleanor can barely do more than breathe against his lips as the pleasure coils hotter and tighter between her legs. “Don’t stop,” she begs. “Don’t stop, I’m close.”

“C’mon, El,” Louis coaxes, feels her clench around him. “C’mon, baby.”

Eleanor comes with a breathy moan, punched out of her lungs by Louis’ steady strokes. She shivers and sags against him, sweaty forehead against his chest. “Didn’t even get naked,” she mumbles in a daze. “A couple of slags, us.”

“Getting naked’s not a hardship.” Louis makes his point by pulling Eleanor’s swim bottoms off.

She tugs off her top with orgasm-lazy hands, running a hand through her hair. Louis loves this Eleanor, languorous and unselfconscious and willing to let Louis run his hands down her body.

“I believe I was promised I wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow,” Eleanor says, rucking up the hem of his shirt.

Louis tugs it off and surges forward to scoop Eleanor up. She squeals and wraps her arms and legs around him. “I plan on delivering,” Louis promises as he walks them to the bedroom.

“I don’t doubt you.”

* * *

Sex with Louis doesn’t always mean multiple orgasms in it for Eleanor. It’s not that fake porn shit where both partners get off at the exact same nanosecond. It took Eleanor ages to train Louis to be gentle with her clit, to find her sweet spot, to realize that she often can’t get there with just penetration no matter how much she loves his prick. It took even longer for his wounded ego to heal.

Men, honestly.

But that’s what happens when you’ve been with someone for years and years. You pick through their most labyrinthine parts and learn to love even the confusing pieces. Especially when it comes to the sex bits.

Now that Eleanor’s had her orgasm, she’s satisfied to let Louis have his fun. She hums when he nips at the curve of her tits and sucks at her nipples. Even though it doesn’t do much for her, she lets out a breathy sigh and palms his arse. She spreads her legs so Louis can nestle between them. She tilts her hips to ease the tip of his dick in and inhales sharply when he slides forward, an easy glide through the mess of her come.

“You feel so good, El,” Louis says against her cheek.

She turns a fraction to slot their lips together for a heated kiss that falls apart the longer Louis stays inside her, burning up. Then she murmurs, “Move.”

Louis doesn’t disappoint. He steadies her with a hand on her hip while he rocks into her, long thrusts that make obscene noises in the quiet of the room.

Eleanor squeezes around him to hear Louis’ breath stutter, to feel how much harder he pounds into her. She loses herself in the sensation, desire simmering at a comfortable level underneath her skin. She likes how Louis’ bruising pace and harsh breathing contrast against the gentle look in his dark eyes and the soft hand he brings to her cheek.

“Yeah, baby,” she croons, “like that.”

She revels in his eyes flicking greedily between her red lips and bouncing tits. He makes her feel like a queen, completely at her mercy. Every moan she elicits chips away at his control. If she carefully rakes her fingers down his back, she can make his hips falter. When she whispers, “You feel so good, Lou. No one fucks me like you do. C’mon, harder,” she can make him come with a ragged shout into the condom.

He pants damply into her neck, hips grinding forward so hard it borders on uncomfortable as he rides out his pleasure. Eleanor whispers praise and sweet nothings into his ear and pets his hair until he gets his breath back.

“Are you back with me, babe?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Louis sucks in a big breath and slowly pulls out. Eleanor makes a face at the unpleasant feeling and watches him bin the condom.

He returns to bed for a long kiss, sated and unhurried. His hand rests on her hip before sliding down to her stomach and further down to hover over her trimmed curls. He leans back to tip his head questioningly.

But Eleanor shakes her head and twines their fingers. “I’m knackered.”

Louis nods and brings their hands up to brush his lips across her fingers. She smiles at him, can’t resist leaning in for another sweet kiss. At last, they settle down to sleep. Louis pulls the sheets over them and pulls her close, cradles her bum against his hips and noses at the back of her neck.

“This was lovely,” Eleanor yawns. “Thank you for coming with me today.”

“Of course.” Louis snuggles closer, ready to give into his exhaustion.

“And,” Eleanor fidgets, “sorry again about that thing with Danielle.”

“Already forgiven,” Louis mumbles, eyes closing.

“It’s just so nice having your attention all the time lately. I guess I’ve gotten so used to it.”

Louis hums in agreement, limbs feeling pleasantly heavy to drag him closer to unconsciousness.

“And I think part of it is I’m worried about what’s going to happen when it’s all over.”

That jolts Louis’ attention. “When what’s all over?”

“This,” Eleanor gestures vaguely, “this weird vacation or whatever mad hallucinogenic Zayn is on right now.”

Louis chuckles. “Zayn’s got a new boyfriend.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“If we play our cards right, this,” Louis drops a kiss to her shoulder, “might not have to end.”

Eleanor sighs. “And if we don’t? If they break up or fade from their honeymoon phase, and you go back to your insane schedule?” She rolls over to face him, drawn expression limned in the harsh streetlights seeping in from the window. “It’s going to be so hard to give this up, Louis. Now that we’ve seen what we could have.”

“Hot, spontaneous sex whenever we want?”

She swats his chest. “Can you think with your proper head for one second? I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

He laughs and cowers from her assault. “Okay, okay, I give up! Have mercy, El!”

She huffs to hide her giggles. “I should push you off the bed for that, Louis.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Eleanor raises an eyebrow.

A minute of tussling later, Louis gives her his most wounded puppy eyes from the floor.

“I told you so,” Eleanor says smugly. “Now get back up here so we can finish our very adult, grown-up talk.”

Louis groans, but holds his hand out. Eleanor rolls her eyes and leans over to haul him up. She squeals when he yanks her down on top of him, dragging down half their sheets in the process. “Louis!”

“Now we’re even. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you never want to look at anything else ever again. On second thought,” Louis leans in for a sweet press of lips, “never stop looking at me like that.”

“Like I could ever stop.”

The two of them sit there for a handful of moments that stretch out, syrupy and soft. Eleanor leans into Louis’ chest and listens to his heartbeat. Louis runs his fingers down the dip of her shoulder blades and follows curve of her spine. Despite the blankets pooled around them, Eleanor wonders if she’s ever felt this exposed before. It should scare her, how Louis seems to see right through her—a little girl trying to ignore everyone else saying that she could do better than a boy who never went to uni, who never has time for her, who never will be enough.

Sometimes, in her darkest moments, Eleanor wonders if there isn’t some truth there. If she should cut her losses before she loses another year waiting in vain for Louis to come home at a decent hour. But then Louis sends her a bouquet of roses for her latest magazine cover shoot or FaceTimes her during his lunch break or texts to ask if her mum is still poorly. Those small gestures buoy her for another weary month of cancelled dinner plans and crap telly dates with Nick.

However, these past months have softened her starving heart. She has grown used to Louis popping by the studio with curry takeaway and spending back to back nights on his sofa binge-watching _Dexter_. She likes kissing him goodnight with the taste of his come on her tongue and rolling away from his morning-breath snogs when she wakes up. Eleanor doesn’t know how she’s supposed to be okay with giving all that up.

“Promise me,” Eleanor whispers, “that we’ll still have moments like this no matter what. Even if Zayn keeps you in the office 24/7, promise that we’ll somehow find a way to make it work. We’re in this together, you and me.”

Louis’ breath catches at the waver in Eleanor’s voice and how tightly she squeezes his hand. He swallows past the lump in his throat to nudge her cheek with his nose. “Only if you promise we can get up soon. Me bum’s gone numb.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Louis Tomlinson, but it’s a deal.”

* * *

“Honey, I’m home!” Louis makes sure to slam the door open just to be extra annoying. He likes to see how much he can piss off any boy Nick brings home. Call it a test of character. If they can’t handle Louis at his most irritating, then they don’t deserve to stick around for brekkie. Not that any of them ever do stick around for much longer than that anyhow, but Louis likes to chalk that up to his excellent vetting skills and not to Nick’s revulsion of monogamy.

He kicks his shoes off as Eleanor walks in, rolling her eyes. Louis has just thrown his phone onto the coffee table to charge later when he hears Eleanor scream.

“El?” He all but vaults over the couch and skids into the kitchen to see Eleanor with her hands clapped over her eyes.

Louis almost gets bowled over into the refrigerator when Nick comes charging down the hallway in nothing but his pants.

“Whassit?” Nick demands in a groggy voice, furiously rubbing his sleep-crusty eyes with a fist. “I heard El scream. Is everyone alright?” He blinks slowly and frowns at the person sitting at the kitchen table. “Oi, popstar, I appreciate the thought, but tuck it away, yeah? We’ve company.”

And that’s when Louis remembers what he was looking at before Nick crashed onto the scene: a wide-eyed, pink-cheeked Harry with only a dish towel covering his private bits. Which reminds him to sputter, “ _Harry_?” He makes a mental note to burn that particular towel.

“Louis? What’re you doing here?”

“What am I—Harry Edward Styles, what are you doing flashing my girlfriend in my own flat?”

“I am quite sorry about that,” Harry tells Eleanor sheepishly. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

But Eleanor, over her initial fright, just giggles and waves away Harry’s apologetic look.

“Clearly,” Louis harrumphs. “Doesn’t mean you can just waltz around our flat starkers. I still don’t know how you’ve wound up—” But then Louis pieces together Harry’s lack of clothing with the mottled lovebites on Nick’s chest and neck. “Harold,” Louis leers, “you filthy slag, have you gone and shagged me flatmate?”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, ear tips gone pink while his other hand holds the dish towel firmly in place. “Er, might’ve done, yeah.”

“Well,” Louis muses, “I did tell you to go pull last night. Well done, curly.”

“And you didn’t tell me your roommate was dead fit,” Harry whines. “And at the party. How was I supposed to know?”

Louis looks at Nick. “I didn’t even know you were at El’s party. You said you had a work thing.”

“I did. My friend was DJing this real high-class thing for exclusive model toff types—oh, I see what happened here.”

Eleanor giggles louder, hand clapped over her mouth to stifle the noise.

“Wait, hang on a moment,” Nick rubs at his temple, “it’s too early for this shit. I need coffee.”

The kettle on the hob whistles merrily. Harry smiles. “Anyone fancy a cuppa?” And really, how is anyone supposed to resist that dimple?

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says. He steps forward to pull out a chair for Eleanor. “Reckon we deserve one after this mess.”

“Great!” Harry forgets himself and stands to get the tea. The tiny little dish towel doesn’t stand a chance and falls to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Rebloggable post [here](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/181716279325/youre-too-good-to-be-all-mine-chapters-35-wc)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Liam begins to piece things together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we have arrived to the very first scene I wrote for this verse! It's the last scene in the chapter. But the scene in the movie where the two bosses call Charlie and Harper into their office to announce they're getting married is what got this whole thing started. The scene went really different from how I was expecting, so of course I thought it would be fun to write out what I had actually expected to happen in the movie. So that scene in addition to Nick as Pete Davidson's character is basically what fueled this whole mess. 
> 
> Happy new year!

Liam Payne is not a big fan of weed. He smoked a little bit in upper sixth, but didn’t feel much of whatever shit strain Andy could get his hands on. He tried again in uni and nearly hyperventilated. He couldn’t feel his fingers. The room swam in and out of focus so much he couldn’t find the millions of people he  _ knew _ were staring at him, laughing his buzzed hair and pointing fingers at his baggy jeans. He couldn’t breathe or think. He could only tear up the dorm room in a fruitless attempt to ease the prickling of his skin. He didn’t sleep that night and missed all his classes the next day. 

However, watching Zayn smoke almost makes Liam want to take it up again. He envies the visible unclenching of Zayn’s taut shoulder muscles, the loose curl of his lips around the joint, the lazy half-mast of his cloudy eyes. He looks so blissed out, thick smoke swirling above where he splays out on Liam’s duvet. His dark ink and lean limbs look so at home against the cream cotton. Somehow he’s turned lounging around in his pants at midnight into an extempore Calvin Klein shoot; however, Liam thinks that might just be a Zayn thing, not necessarily a weed thing. 

It might be annoying, how Zayn can still come off suave while doing something as juvenile as getting fucked up, if Liam didn’t know that Zayn has his unrefined moments the same as everyone else. He’s seen Zayn’s morning ritual of applying a careful selection of product to conceal the sleepless bags beneath his eyes, to ease the exhaustion lining his face after the most recent bout of insomnia. He knows Zayn drools when he finally can shut his brain down long enough to sleep. He’s witnessed Zayn flustered and contemplating a fifth outfit change of the hour in anticipation of meeting Liam’s sister for the first time. 

Those moments, where Zayn finally loses his perpetual poise and allows Liam to see the chinks in his armor, those moments remind Liam to hold on even when Zayn lashes out. When Zayn yells things that hurt more because of their veracity than their cruelty. 

“You’re a neurotic prick that can’t let go of control for one bloody second!” 

True. 

“You don’t know how to have fun!” 

True. 

“You’re fucking smothering me! I wanted a boyfriend, not a nagging mum.” 

True. 

Every blow lands on its mark, but Liam tries to remember that it hurts this much because he’s let Zayn see these weaknesses. Zayn only knows where to twist the knife because Liam willingly exposed his gut and offered the blade. Similarly, Liam only knows what words he can spit back to see Zayn’s face fracture because Zayn spent night after night whispering his fears into Liam’s neck. That has to count for something, Liam thinks. 

“You think too much.” Zayn’s words seep out of his mouth with a fresh plume of smoke, drifting lazily upward. He reaches over to pet at Liam’s wrinkled forehead. “Sure you don’t want a hit?” 

Liam only barely manages to escape getting poked in the eye. He catches Zayn’s uncoordinated hand with a chuckle. “No thanks. M’thinking about you.” He pulls Zayn closer, enjoys the warmth of Zayn’s bare skin against his own. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I like to think about you too,” Zayn says, quietly like a secret. 

Maybe it is a secret. Maybe they weren’t supposed to have more than their one night together, a good shag to come their brains out hard enough to satisfy them for the next five years of nonstop work. Except Zayn didn’t shuffle out of Liam’s flat for a walk of shame back to his place. He didn’t even make it out of bed before Liam had reached out with a tentative tug on his wrist and a hopeful, “Stay for brekkie?” 

And even now, maybe no one can know that Liam’s measured the past  five months in pieces of Zayn. 

Five months ago, Liam scrambled eggs and almost burnt the toast because Zayn snuck up behind him to trail kisses down his spine. They barely got the hob turned off before Zayn slid to his knees on the smooth kitchen tile. 

Three months ago, Ruth commented that Liam looked better, sounded more lively even through the grainy FaceTime call. “And you’ve called me twice in two months. That’s gotta be some sort of record,” she added. “Mum rang me the other day in tears because she said you’ve responded to every one of her texts.” Liam didn’t mention that each call had been preceded by Zayn physically rolling his chair away from his desk until he couldn’t reach his paperwork anymore. 

One month ago, Harry helped Perrie book a quick weekend holiday somewhere in America during which Liam and Zayn spent equal parts yelling their frustrations into the salty ocean breeze and fucking on the beach. 

“What do you think about?” Liam asks before he can get any more lost in memories of Zayn’s windswept hair or sharp profile against the Atlantic horizon. If Liam gets too sentimental, Zayn is liable to squirm away. 

“How we met.” 

“With me flashing your poor assistant?” Liam grins into Zayn’s chest. 

“I’m sure he enjoyed the view,” Zayn shrugs. “I know I did.” He pats Liam’s arm approvingly. “Still do.” 

“Good to know.” 

“I was very upset when you put that jumper on.” Zayn pouts until Liam leans up to kiss him. They get lost in hazy kisses for a bit, Liam chasing the sweet taste of Zayn’s mouth and Zayn bringing up a hand to hold Liam’s jaw. At last, Zayn has to lean away to ash the joint. 

“Ah, yeah,” Liam continues, a little breathless, “I almost forgot about that jumper. Funny thing, us first meeting. What with Louis running into me and Perrie showing up late. Almost, like, orchestrated, you know?” 

“Orchestrated,” Zayn echoes distantly, leaning away to suck on the tail end of the joint before flicking it in the direction of the bin. 

Liam swallows down a sigh at the thought of having to pick that up later. Instead he continues, “Yeah, like, a meet cute. And everything that came afterwards too.” 

“Hmm,” Zayn hums, politely interested, but more engrossed with nipping at Liam’s collarbones. 

“Like,” Liam sighs into Zayn’s wandering mouth, “um…” He loses his train of thought when Zayn’s fingers tug at his nipples, scrape down his stomach to the waistband of Liam’s pants. After that, he doesn’t do a lot of talking that doesn’t involve begging Zayn to  _ move faster;  harder; fuck, babe, yeah like that.  _

* * *

Liam doesn’t put much more thought into his and Zayn’s meet cute until  a couple weeks later. He’s in the studio with Steve working with the boyband that FT flew out from America for a test run before they decide to really buckle down and get rolling on an entire album. Discovered a couple years ago, the five boys have got a tiny EP and a miniature North American headlining tour under their belts. Well, it was really just a States-wide tour with one Canadian stop, but Liam will give it to them because they’ve got a solid sound.

None of them are old enough to have gone to uni for music, but there’s something refreshing about their unfinished sound. It lacks the polish and classical training that comes with years of vocal coaching and music theory. Everything they can feel in the beat and infer from the bass line comes from their instincts. 

Liam is convinced the blonde one can’t even read music, just hears the other lads and picks up the harmonies and little riffs by ear alone. The boy from New Jersey says he danced before he pursued singing, and Liam can see it in how he can hear the demo once and parrot back the drum rhythm in perfect time. Two of the others can plunk out unsteady tunes on a piano, but no one’s good enough to play live. Not yet, anyway. 

Nevertheless, all five are eager and raring to get started, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. The sheer amount of potential spread out before Liam has his heartbeat picking up with a thrill. 

They go at it for a couple hours, starting with scales and warmups before moving on to classic covers to test their range and knowledgeability of styles. They take to 90s pop and RnB covers like fish to water, but stumble over older jazz and swing unless it’s Sinatra. But Steve points out that a pop boyband won’t need to warble or scat anyway. Between the five of them, they can cover an impressive range with their voices, with plenty of room for improvement. None of them has a particularly good falsetto yet, but Liam agrees with Steve that they can work on that. Something to fine tune for the next single. 

However, by the third time Edwin breaks out beatboxing for Zion and Brandon to dance battle in the cramped recording space, Liam knows they need to burn some of their bouncing energy before they can make any more progress. 

“Lunch break!” Liam claps his hands together to get their attention before they break something expensive. 

“Pizza?” Austin pipes up hopefully. 

“Whatever you like.” 

The boys instantly start squabbling over what to get. They clamber out of the studio into the hallway to Tweet out a poll or whatever teenagers do to settle arguments these days. Liam just breathes out a sigh of relief that they’re moving away from the fragile equipment. 

Only Nick stays behind, glued to his mobile as he slowly totters towards the door. He nearly runs into the wall until Liam rights him with a hand to his shoulder. “Thanks, dude. Er, I mean, Mr. Payne.” 

“No problem, dude. Must be pretty important,” Liam nods to Nick’s iPhone, “if you’ve nearly brained yourself.” 

“Nah, just Instagram. Kacey Musgraves just posted about a new tour she’s headlining next year. I’m trying to get the guys to go with me.” 

“Kacey Musgraves?” Liam can’t help but scowl when he remembers her _ Zap! _ fiasco.

Luckily, Nick’s still got his face buried in his phone, so he misses it. “Yeah, man, look.” He tilts the screen in Liam’s direction so he can see the blue background of Kacey’s latest album cover with dates and locations stamped onto it in neat rows. Then Nick backs out of the picture to see the three column layout of her Instagram feed, and Liam catches sight of a familiar face grinning up at him. 

“Wait.” Nick pauses and looks at Liam, who leans closer. “Click on that one. What’s that?” 

Obediently, Nick opens another picture, more recent and near the top of the page. “This?” 

Liam stares uncomprehendingly at—

Nick taps on the man grinning into the camera beside Kacey’s blurry pout. A profile tag pops up. “Who’s Harry Styles?” Steve sticks his head into the room to say that the boys have finally agreed on three pizzas and saves Liam from answering. 

* * *

Liam tries not to think about it. So Harry ran into Kacey somewhere and got a lucky fan picture, so what? If Liam caved, went trawling through Instagram, and saw that Kacey posted the picture a couple months before her deal with Zayn fell through, so what? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a funny coincidence, like Liam and Zayn’s scrambled meetings or Liam having Rita Ora on hand to offer as an ideal replacement for Kacey.

One thing leads to another, and Liam finds himself Googling Rita for no good reason. The usual tabloid fodder pops up from  _ Daily Star _ and  _ Mirror _ . Underneath sit Rita’s Wikipedia page and links to her Instagram and official website. Even further down, Liam finds abysmal clickbait articles that sent him straight back to the top so he doesn’t strain something rolling his eyes at  _ WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE RITA ORA???  _

Back where he started, Liam skips over a report of Rita signing onto Kate Moss’ modeling agency and frowns at the next story’s cover picture. It’s a grainy pap shot of Rita in oversized sunnies and bikini that likely costs more than Liam cares to think about. It’s probably got diamonds sewn into it or something. She’s talking to a man wearing regular-sized sunglasses and a repugnant neon shirt with little palm trees and pineapples in tap shoes printed all over. Liam clicks on the stupid headline not because he cares about about  _ RITA ORA AND NICK GRIMSHAW’S TOP TEN RELATIONSHIP GOALS MOMENTS _ , but because next to the couple stands a slightly blurry, but unmistakable Louis Tomlinson. 

Liam’s eyebrows furrow in unease. 

Skimming through the article to the picture in question, Liam reads the caption.  **Making a big splash: a couple weeks ago, Rita Ora, 27, and Nicholas Grimshaw, 33, cozy up at a pool party hosted by AMS Modeling in Knightsbridge. Although the couple haven’t been spotted together for a few months, they no doubt still hold a flame that can’t be dampened by any poolside bash!**

When Liam had asked Perrie to reach out to Rita, she had gotten back to him with a confirmation in mere hours. Liam hadn’t questioned it. He spent enough time on endeavors that went wrong; he didn’t need to scrutinize the ones that went right as well. However, now, Liam has a suspicion that his stroke of good fortune had less to do with lucky timing than it has to do with Louis showing up next to Rita and Nicholas at an exclusive West London party.

“Hey, babes.” Zayn comes around the desk to kiss Liam’s cheek. He glances at the computer. “Oh, look it’s Louis and his flatmate.” 

“Louis’ living with Rita Ora?” 

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “No, he’s living with that one.” Zayn points at Nick. “Grime something? Grintster?” 

“How do you know Nick Grimshaw?” 

“Ah, that’s it. He came into the office once when Louis was sick to drop off something. Medicine, probably. I think he works for night clubs or something.” Zayn looks closer at the tacky article. “Why’re you looking at this rubbish?” 

Liam doesn’t answer right away, wants to gather his thoughts and articulate deliberately lest something come off wrong. “I was just thinking.” 

“About?” Zayn kisses the shell of Liam’s ear, nibbles on his earlobe. 

“Our first date.” 

Zayn hums into the cut of Liam’s jaw to show he’s listening. 

“How we went out to celebrate you making your deadline. It seemed like such a miracle.” 

“It was a miracle,” Zayn agrees, hands smoothing over Liam’s shoulders to toy with his tie. 

“Yeah,” Liam says without conviction, eyeing the pap photo of Louis. “A really, really convenient miracle.” Then he squints at Rita and Nick standing awfully close with Nick leaning in while Rita rests a hand on his arm. 

Zayn doesn’t seem to notice the uncertainty in Liam’s voice and proceeds to loosen his tie, thumbing open the buttons of Liam’s shirt. 

“How many days off do you reckon we’ve given Louis and Harry since we got together?” 

“Hmmm,” Zayn mumbles distractedly. “I dunno. Why?” When Liam doesn’t respond right away, he shuts the laptop with a snap. 

That makes Liam blink, frown slipping into an easy smirk as he surges up to kiss Zayn. 

* * *

In his four years as Louis’ flatmate, Nick has visited his workplace a grand total of two times. He doesn’t make it a habit to cater to Louis’ whims. However, the first time, Eleanor had traveled out of town for work, and Nick had seen roadkill that looked more lively than Louis had that morning as he dragged himself out the door despite glazed eyes and a thirty-nine degree fever. As a result, Nick found himself stepping out of the shiny lift onto Louis’ floor with a little baggie of ibuprofen and extra tissues. Louis looked so pathetic slumped at his desk with his pallid face and sweat-damp fringe, Nick couldn’t even find it in him to take the piss out of him for settling for a dreadful cubicle job. On this way out, someone tried to send Nick on a coffee run, and he vowed never to return. He could practically feel the grey walls sucking the life and joy out of him. Overnight anti-aging cream before bed won’t fix that.

Unfortunately, that promise to himself wavered and crumbled to pieces a year later when faced with Eleanor’s big, pleading brown eyes. Nick had woken up from a six hour nap just in time to scowl and grab the greasy bag of Chinese takeaway Eleanor didn’t have time to deliver to Louis. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Calder,” Nick grumbled darkly as he grabbed his keys on the way out the door. 

“You’re the best, Grimmers!” 

“And don’t you forget it, darling.” 

Contrastingly, in his  three months of seeing Harry, Nick has visited the dreadful place no less than seven times. During four of those, he had cajoled Harry into the toilets for a quick handjob that left Harry’s suit wrinkled, his eyes unfocused, and his muscles a lot less tense than they were before Nick arrived. 

Nick had fun, but tonight, he wants more than Harry’s frantic fingers wrapped around their spit-slick dicks for a hasty orgasm. He wants Harry’s eyes on him, not darting to the door every second, senses straining to make sure no one’s come in. Nick is determined not to leave without getting a proper blowjob. If he gets ambitious, he’ll try fuck Harry over a desk—ideally his boss’, but Nick will settle for Harry’s. What’s the use of sleeping with someone who works at a God awful desk if they aren’t going to put it to good use? 

Buoyed by the tantalizing thought of Harry stretched over his sleek workspace, bent at the waist, crisp trousers pulled down over his small bum and ironed shirt rucked up by his armpits, maybe glasses askew if he’s is lucky, Nick walks through the front doors. The lobby looks almost frightening this late at night with only half the lights on, and even the night guard buggered off somewhere. With no one around to judge him, Nick jogs to the lift. He peeks over his shoulder an embarrassing amount of times, scanning the lurking shadows, and breathes out a sigh of relief when he makes it into the lift safely. 

On Harry’s floor, Nick tiptoes past the empty rooms and through the barren hallways. After a little listless wandering, Nick finds the corridor leading to Harry’s desk and Liam’s office. He peers around the corner and sees Harry’s curls peeking over the top of his computer screen. He ponders if he can scare Harry and still get an orgasm out of him or if Harry will pout and try to throw Nick out. He doesn’t get a chance to find out because his mobile chirps with a Twitter alert. Nick curses Rita Ora and fumbles for it, but not before Harry straightens his awful slouch to frown and look around. 

“Nick?” 

“Hiya, popstar.” 

Harry scrubs at one eye with a fist as Nick saunters over. “There’s, like, a fifty-fifty chance that you’re just a sleep-deprived hallucination, but I don’t even care,” Harry admits. “I’m really glad you’re here.” He scoots out from his desk and angles his chair towards Nick, who sidles up to fit between his legs. His expression goes soft. He reaches out a hand to touch Nick’s elbow in a gentle gesture. “I missed you.” 

“I resent being called a hallucination,” Nick sniffs with mock indignance because that’s easier than tracing the weary lines on Harry’s face or wrapping his disheveled form in a blanket burrito with a hot cup of chamomile tea so Harry can sleep for at least three and a half years. 

“That’s what a figment of my imagination would say.” 

Nick snorts. He runs his hands over Harry’s shoulders before urging him to his feet. Nick doesn’t fancy contorting himself to fit onto Harry’s lap on his rickety chair and possibly kneeing Harry in the chin in the process. It’s far easier for everyone involved for Nick to steady Harry with a hand at his hip and a palm at the cut of his jaw. 

Nick leans in for a kiss that starts chaste enough, a familiar and comforting press of lips. He can feel Harry sigh into it and takes a moment to bask in the faint traces of Harry’s cologne, the warm tingle in his stomach. If they were at home, lounging on the sofa in their pyjamas, telly on low, settled for a languid night in, Nick would stay here forever mapping the feeling of Harry’s plush lips and memorizing the nudge of his nose against Nick’s cheek. 

However, tonight, Nick is on a mission. He drags his hand up to dishevel Harry’s hair, fingers carding through curls gone somewhat limp after a long day. He nips at Harry’s bottom lip until he can lick inside, reveling in the slick heat of Harry’s tongue. Harry’s fingers tighten around Nick’s waist, drifting down to slip into the back pockets of his jeans where Nick has stashed lube and a couple condoms. They kiss until Nick’s jaw aches and his lungs burn, and Harry pulls away first. His breaths come harder, eyes dark and infinitely more alert. 

“Oh.” Harry swallows thickly. He squeezes Nick’s bum through his jeans and bites back a whimper when Nick grinds forward so Harry can feel how hard he is. “Not imaginary then.” 

Nick grins and swoops in to steal another searing kiss. “Not quite.” 

“What,” Harry sounds dazed, “what are you even doing here, Nick? How’d you even get in? This building locks up at ten.” 

“Do you want to ask me about how I got into your creepy-as-shit workplace,” Nick carefully extricates himself from Harry’s grasp to push Harry back into his chair and sink to his knees, “or do you want me to suck your dick?” He slowly nudges at Harry’s knees until they fall further open to accommodate the width of his shoulders. He rests one hand on Harry’s thigh, fingers twitching towards where he’s half hard in his trousers. 

“I—” Harry’s eyes fall to half-mast as Nick trails his fingers down to tap on his knee. 

“Hmm,” Nick teases, leaning down to nuzzle at Harry’s fly. Even through the layers of clothing, he feels burning hot and hard against Nick’s cheek. 

“Nick,” Harry gasps, hips twitching, “we’re—anyone could walk by and—I’m at work!” 

“I don’t see anyone around,” Nick murmurs, hands making quick work of untucking Harry’s shirt and unzipping his slacks. He doesn’t look away from the tantalizing bulge in Harry’s pants. He can’t help biting on his bottom lip in anticipation. “Do you?” 

“No, but—” Harry lets out a little groan as Nick feels him through his pants, mouths along his hard length until the wet fabric clings tight and outlines every detail. He kisses Harry’s shuddering stomach above his waistband, the softness of his hips. 

“But?” Nick drags the trousers further down around his knees so he can playfully pinch Harry’s thighs. Before Harry can retaliate, he shifts on his knees, rocking forward until Harry can feel his warm breath puff against his dick. 

“Liam,” Harry gasps out even as his hand finds Nick’s shoulder, his hair. 

“My name’s Nick, sweetheart.”

“Liam’s still here, you arse. We can’t.” 

“Where?” Nick’s fingers slow down where they’re unbuttoning Harry’s shirt, pausing at his moth tattoo. It’s quite a look—Harry’s flush peeking out from under the top half of his shirt that Nick has yet to undo, eyes dark with arousal, pants damp with Nick’s saliva and Harry’s own eagerness. 

“In his office.” Harry jerks his head across the hall to the shut door. 

“Guess that means you’ll have to be quiet.” Nick undoes Harry’s last button, lets his shirt flap open. He runs his hands over the smooth planes of Harry’s chest, tweaks a nipple to see Harry’s mouth fall open. “God, you look good like this. Can’t wait to get my mouth on you proper.” 

“ _ Nick _ ,” Harry tries again, but Nick continues to inch his pants down to reveal Harry’s cock, flushed to match his cheeks and gleaming at the head. 

“Say stop, and I will,” Nick says, wrapping his hands around Harry to wank him off a couple times. His mouth waters at how hot Harry feels in his hand, how heavy and lovely he’ll rest against Nick’s tongue. “I promise.” 

Harry bites his lip hard, exhaling shakily through his nose when Nick thumbs his tip. 

“If you’re good,” Nick purrs in a low voice, “I’ll fuck you over your desk afterwards.” 

“Fuck, Nick,” Harry hisses, hips jerking forwards. 

“Is that a yes?” Nick pops a cheeky kiss to the head of Harry’s dick. “Consent is important, you know.” 

“Yes, fucking yes. Now get on with it.” 

“Impatient,” Nick scolds even as he finally gives into his own building restlessness and sinks down. It’s messy and brilliant, the weight of Harry in his mouth, the distinct but not unpleasant taste, the moan Harry lets out when Nick bobs his head. He pays attention to the flexing of Harry’s thighs and his panting breaths. Harry’s fingers tighten in Nick’s hair briefly before loosening and apologetically scratching his scalp. 

“Oh,” Harry throws his head back, hips tilting up and eyes squeezing shut, “fuck, Nick, just like that.” 

If he could, Nick would smirk. As it is, he swirls his tongue around the head again and edges further down until Harry nudges as far down his throat as Nick dares to go. His hand squeezes what he can’t fit in his mouth, twisting to smear the saliva dripping down towards Harry’s bollocks. 

Harry whines at the suction, laurels twitching. 

Nick pops off to rasp, “Hush, popstar. Can’t have us getting found out by the boss.” Harry’s dick twitches in Nick’s hand, a bit of precome spurting from the tip. Nick raises an eyebrow, looking up at Harry, whose red face goes impossibly redder. “Unless,” Nick drawls, never stopping his leisurely pace wanking Harry, not nearly tight or fast enough to get him off, just to tease and keep his lips parted in helpless pleasure, “you’d like that. Like having Liam coming out of his office to see you like this. Prick out, lips so pretty, hair mussed. Mr. Payne’s little office slag, hmm? Would you like that, Harry?” 

“I—maybe,” Harry whispers in a tiny, wavering voice. He looks overwhelmed, chest quivering and eyes not quite focused. 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Nick soothes, leaning up to press a reassuring kiss to Harry’s hipbone. “I can stop, if you like. Won’t say it again.” 

“No, I—” Harry licks his red lips. “Keep going. Please. It’s okay.” 

“Okay. If you’re sure.” 

Harry nods and gasps when Nick quickens his hand, squeezes a little tighter and twists on the upstroke. It doesn’t take much more, Nick leaving bruising kisses at the crease of his hips and paying attention to the sensitive head, before Harry gasps out, “Close, Nick.” 

“I’ve got you.” Nick takes Harry into his mouth deeper, loosens his grip on Harry’s twitching hips so he can fuck shallowly into his lax throat. He breathes through his nose and enjoys the little sounds Harry can’t hold back as he loses himself. Soon, Harry moans a choked warning and comes. 

Nick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while Harry all but melts into his chair, sweaty chest heaving. He tries not to make a face at the taste, but must not do a good job because Harry giggles and hauls Nick in for a sloppy snog. 

Harry’s still a little too come-drunk and loose to do much more than lazily hum into Nick’s mouth. But Nick grinds his hard cock into the crease of Harry’s thigh until Harry gets the hint. 

“Okay, okay, I’m getting up. But you have to move first,” Harry huffs, shoving lightly at Nick’s chest. 

Once they’re both standing, Harry shucks off his shirt, and Nick can’t resist grabbing Harry’s bare arse. He lets his fingers dig into the wonderfully warm flesh and leans in to nibble at Harry’s jaw. Harry sighs and reaches down to finally undo Nick’s jeans and shove down his pants to get his cock out. 

“Missed you,” Harry grins, wrapping his fingers around Nick for a friendly squeeze. 

“My face is up here,” Nick complains even as he carefully shuffles Harry against his desk. 

“Save it,” Harry snorts, leaning in for a quick kiss. “You’re not even going to fuck me face to face.” 

“We could!” Nick protests even as Harry turns around and plants his hands on his desk. He shoves aside some loose papers and sends a stapler tumbling to the ground. Nick comes up behind him, lets Harry feel how hard he is. His hips press forward automatically, desperate for any sort of friction. 

“As if,” Harry snorts as Nick drapes himself over Harry’s back. He tilts his head to let Nick suck bruising kisses onto his neck. “Don’t think I don’t know how long you’ve wanted to fuck me over this desk.” 

“Didn’t have to be this particular one,” Nick mumbles, one arm wrapping around Harry’s waist for a quick squeeze. “Could’ve been Liam’s too.” 

“We’re not fucking in my boss’ office.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Now’re you gonna fuck me or what?” He spreads his legs a little more, as much as the trousers trapped around his calves will allow, and bends at the waist to prop his arse out. He smirks over his shoulder. 

“Yes, sir,” Nick agrees enthusiastically, giving Harry a playful pat on one cheek before rummaging around for the lube. It’s quicker than Nick normally likes. Ideally, Nick drags out this bit, toys with Harry’s rim and doesn’t add more fingers until Harry begs. He likes to feel Harry’s lips go slack against his, feel him clench around Nick’s fingers like he can’t wait for his cock. 

But for as much as he might whisper dirty things in Harry’s ear to reduce Harry to a quivering mess, Nick doesn’t actually feel like waiting around for Liam to catch them fucking. So Nick is efficient, stretching Harry as quickly as he can without it feeling perfunctory. He tries to make up for it by kissing down the knobs of Harry’s spine and gripping the slight pudge of one hip that Harry hates with a vengeance, but Nick finds perfectly fits his hand. He leans back to watch his slick fingers disappearing inside Harry and has to squeeze a tight hand around his dick.

“You feel so good,” Nick says into Harry’s shoulder. “So tight, so perfect, fuck.” 

Harry shakes where he’s rested on his forearms on the desk. His back flexes when he tilts his hips back onto Nick’s fingers. “C’mon, Nick,” Harry grunts, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. “I’m ready, fuck me already.” 

Nick doesn’t have the breath for a snarky reply. He grabs a condom he tosses aside earlier onto Harry’s chair and fumbles it open. He gets himself situated, leans forward to trail a couple kisses along the wide breadth of Harry’s shoulders, and flicks a foil packet onto the desk in Harry’s eyeline. 

“What the?” Harry frowns, looking over his shoulder to Nick in confusion. 

“Unless you want to be the one to clean up come from your desk after this,” Nick nods to the condom. “Wrap it before you tap it, popstar.” 

“You  _ are _ wrapped,” Harry grumbles, but begrudgingly reaches for the condom. 

“No glove, no love,” Nick declares mock seriously, snorting when Harry whips a sour look over his shoulder. 

“If you keep this up,” Harry mutters darkly, “you won’t be getting any love.” 

“You wound me, Harold,” Nick says, splaying a hand in the center of Harry’s back to urge him forward. Once Harry is braced against the desk, legs wide and back tense, Nick lines up and pushes in. 

He doesn’t stop to relish the hot clench of Harry for long, just waits long enough for Harry to let out the shaky breath he was holding, and takes that as permission to set a brutal pace. He snaps his hips forward and yanks Harry back towards him with a bruising grip on his hips, skin slapping obscenely. He could drown in how good Harry feels, pleasure coiling too hot and too fast behind his navel. Sweat drips down his temple, and he regrets not bothering to take off his shirt. But he has to admit there’s something hot about being nearly completely dressed with only his dick out with Harry whimpering under him, bare except for the trousers tangled up in his legs. 

The desk trembles with every thrust, Harry’s knuckles white where he hangs onto the edge as Nick pounds in with renewed vigor. Harry groans loudly when Nick grinds forward, nerves alight with skittering sparks. 

“Hush, popstar,” Nick whispers breathlessly into the back of Harry’s neck. “Gotta keep quiet.” 

Harry nods with a bitten back gasp. His head droops as Nick starts up again. “Are you close?” 

“Yeah, baby,” Nick grunts. It takes all his willpower to slow down, keep his strokes longer and more precise. He breathes deeply and swivels his hips experimentally. He trails his fingers up Harry’s chest, pinching a sensitive nipple to hear Harry swear quietly. Then he hits the right angle, and Harry curses a lot louder. His legs tremble as Nick tries to duplicate it over and over again. The fast rhythm leaves them both gasping for air. 

“Nick—” Harry warns, one hand reaching down to tug at his cock. 

“I know, darling, me too,” Nick puffs out, hips stuttering forward and grinding into Harry as he starts to come. “Fuck.” 

Harry’s hand moves quickly over his dick, spilling into the condom before Nick has even caught his breath enough to pull out. 

Nick hisses as Harry tightens around his sensitive cock, pleasure mixing with slight pain in a heady concoction. Eventually, Nick pulls out and helps Harry straighten up. They bin the condoms, Harry pulls up his trousers after a less than satisfactory wipedown with some napkins he found in a drawer, and they fall together in a lazy kiss—hands roaming without any destination in mind, touching just to feel each other’s rapid heartbeats slow. 

Nick could kiss Harry forever, but Harry pushes him away with a laugh. “Nick, I have to get dressed.” 

“Why?” Nick pouts as Harry picks up his wrinkled shirt. He reaches for Harry, who bats his hands away and continues to fix up the buttons. 

“Stay back, you sex-crazed maniac!” Harry laughs. 

“You weren’t complaining about that five minutes ago,” Nick huffs, crossing his arms petulantly. Then he decides Harry might take him more seriously if his dick wasn’t still out, so he tucks himself away. 

“Yeah, well—” 

Their banter gets cut off by the sound of Liam’s office door opening. Liam backs out of his office, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder and arms full of teetering stacks of paperwork. With his back to Harry, he flounders around with one foot to shut the door. 

Harry’s eyes explode to the size of moons. His face loses all color. Before Nick can so much as blink, Harry grabs him by the front of his shirt and stuffs him underneath the desk. Nick bangs an elbow on a cabinet file and bites his tongue to hold back any noise. He can barely fold his long limbs to fit into the cramped space and has to squirm aside to somehow make nonexistent space for Harry’s legs when he drops into his chair and scoots into position. 

“Yes, yes, I understand, thank you,” Nick hears Liam mumbling distractedly. “Right, that sounds great. Yes, I’ll see you soon.” A lull as Liam must hang up. “Harry.” 

“Mr. Payne,” Harry greets, voice utterly even like that of someone who has been coordinating calendars and answering emails all night and definitely does not have tacky lube drying between their legs from getting the daylights fucked out of them minutes ago. 

“Did I hear you talking to someone earlier?” 

“No, just myself,” Harry admits sheepishly. “It helps me concentrate.” 

Nick can hardly hear Liam’s response over the blooding rushing in his ears. “Yeah, it has been a late night, hasn’t it? Later than we’ve had for a while.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You haven’t gotten out of practice, have you?” 

“No, sir. Years of training don’t vanish that quickly.” 

“No, I suppose not.” Liam pauses. “Is that your stapler on the ground?” 

“Oh,” Harry stammers, floundering for a viable excuse, “it, uh, fell earlier, and I must’ve forgotten to pick it up.” He gets up to go fetch it. 

“Well, I’m going to call it a night. Go ahead and lock up when you leave please.” 

“Of course. Good night, Mr. Payne.” Above, Nick can hear Harry shuffling around. 

“Oh, do you have a rubbish bin, Harry? I need to throw this away.” Footsteps start making their way towards where Nick sits crammed. He stares in alarm at the tiny bin sits right beside Harry’s chair. If Liam rounds Harry’s desk, he’ll have a clear view of Nick’s hunched form and the two used condoms sitting right in plain sight. 

“Let me, sir!” Harry all but shouts, scrambling around as Nick shrinks as far out of sigh as he can. He hardly dares to breathe. 

“It’s right there, Harry. I can—” 

“That’s what you hired me for, right?” Harry interrupts nervously. “To do menial tasks so you don’t have to waste time with them. There, done.” Nick sees a wadded up napkin miss the edge of the bin by literal miles, bouncing on the floor and rolling away sadly. Nick can barely restrain himself from sighing. 

Another awkward pause. “Right. Goodnight, Harry.” Liam’s footsteps gradually recede. 

Even after they hear the lift faintly ding to indicate that Liam has left, Harry doesn’t let Nick out until he does a quick sweep of the floor to make sure no one has lingered. 

“That,” Harry slumps against his desk, “was way too fucking close.”

With the danger passed, Nick can’t help but grin. “Well, you did almost come down my throat at the thought of him catching us.” 

“Yeah, in theory! I don’t actually fancy losing my job because Liam got an eyeful. Besides, I’d like to keep you all for myself.” 

Nick’s heart does something funny, shivers pleasantly at the unexpected fondness in Harry’s tone. He reaches for Harry’s hand, always surprised by how well their fingers fit together. “I’d like that too. Now let’s get out of here.” 

* * *

“Tomlinson, my office.”

Louis blinks in surprise at Zayn’s curt tone. The cursor on the screen blinks back at him as he wracks his brain to figure out what’s got Zayn so shirty. He definitely got Zayn’s tea for him this morning with not-quite-one sugar. They didn’t get into the office until half ten today, which means Zayn definitely got a good shag in before he left because Louis had time to make El come three times. As far as Louis knows, they’re on track for all their upcoming deadlines, and Zayn even charmed that one lady into giving them an exclusive with just his eyebrows—

“Tomlinson!” 

All those evenings off must be really doing his head in if he’s made Zayn wait long enough to call his name twice. “Right, sorry, sir. Coming!” Louis jumps up from his seat to hurry into Zayn’s office. He hurriedly closes the door behind him. In his haste, he didn’t notice—“Er, hi, Mr. Payne.” Louis tries to keep his face from doing something horribly complicated and revealing when he sees Harry hunched in one of Zayn’s purposefully uncomfortable chairs. 

Zayn slips behind his desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes sharp. With Liam leaned against his desk, frankly ridiculous biceps crossed over his equally ridiculous chest, they cut an intimidating scene even if they didn’t have the ability to fire Louis with a snap of their fingers. Which probably explains why Harry looks like he’s about to shit himself, eyes wide and nervously tugging at the collar of his shirt. 

“Mr. Styles,” Louis acknowledges, ever the professional. Now probably isn’t the best time to admit that he and Harry are on a first name basis as a result of weekly lunch dates, attending AMS-hosted pool parties, and Harry courting Louis’ flatmate. 

However, Liam just growls, “Cut the crap, Tomlinson. We know about you two.”

Harry’s eyes get impossibly bigger, darting to Louis like a plea for help. 

Louis wants to smack him for looking so guilty, but he restrains himself. He surreptitiously wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. “What do you mean?” 

“We know,” Zayn repeats in a hard voice, eyes narrowing. “And we don’t like being made fools of.” 

Between Liam’s simmering anger and Zayn’s cold fury, Louis doesn’t know how much longer he can last, let alone poor Harry, who cries over eggs he accidentally cracks on his way home from the shops. 

Nevertheless, Louis has watched enough crime dramas on Netflix to know better than to admit anything freely. He purses his lips and stands his ground. “Know what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zayn hums disbelievingly. He glances at Liam, who nods. Then, in unison, they turn to Harry, who gulps audibly. Liam leans forward to growl, “Is that so, Harold?” 

Louis doesn’t even have time to reach for Harry in an attempt to hold him together or maybe slap a hand over his mouth before Harry’s face crumples. “Okay, okay! We did it!” 

“Harry, shut it,” Louis hisses.

But Harry just pours out everything, floodgates bursting wide open to let through a streaming confession. “We just wanted you two to be happy because you’re so miserable all the time.” He turns watery eyes on, “Liam, you never see your family and think protein shakes are a substitute for a proper meal.” Then Harry swivels beseechingly to Zayn. “And, Mr. Malik, you don’t sleep enough, and your office is always in a tip.” Zayn looks a bit disgruntled at that, but Liam nudges him with a snicker. “It was just so nice to see you both smiling, like in that dopey I-just-had-an-earth-shakingly-good-fuck way, you know?” 

Louis groans and slaps his hand over his eyes. He can’t watch the carnage unfold. 

That doesn’t deter Harry. “And, like, I know it was wrong to take advantage of you both like that. But me and Lou can only take sixteen hour work days so long, you know? Before we go mad. So when you started giving us free afternoons and weekends, we just…” He shrugs helplessly and looks at Louis for help. “Took advantage, I suppose.” 

But Louis refuses to help someone who breaks after less than five minutes of interrogation. 

“So you admit it,” Liam says triumphantly, straightening up. “You admit that you and Louis set us up and faked our whole relationship.” 

“We  _ what _ ?” Harry squawks, almost falling off his seat. 

“You,” Liam loses a bit of steam at Harry’s shock and Louis’ gaping speechlessness. His brow furrows like he’s trying to discern the genuineness of their reactions. 

“You fucked up our meeting schedules so we would keep running into each other,” Zayn takes over, ruthless and accusatory. He starts ticking off on his fingers. “Louis cancelled my arrangement with Kacey so I’d have to look for another artist on short notice, which meant Perrie oh so conveniently found me Rita from FT. Harry forgot to order Liam’s lunch, and Louis double ordered, so we would have to share. Louis got someone to leave my tablet in the gym, so I’d go down and see Liam, who just so happened to be working out at that exact time. Do I need to go on?” 

“I didn’t screw up your meetings,” Louis protests. He feels more indignation at the implication that he can’t do his job than he feels fear at Zayn’s wild allegations. “All those changes were from another department. I just got the email telling me to adjust your calendar. And besides, how would I get Kacey Musgraves to back out at the last second?” 

“Harry knows her,” Liam accuses. 

“I don’t know if once doing drunk karaoke to a Whitney Houston song together counts as knowing her,” Harry puzzles. He looks like he might actually be contemplating if he intoxicatedly asked a Grammy-award-winning country superstar to help him manipulate his boss. Louis pinches his side to avoid that rabbit hole. 

“Y-you’re not mates?” Liam frowns. 

“But,” Zayn contends, “she posted a selfie of you two on her Instagram.” 

“She did?” Harry’s face lights up. “That’s wicked. Can I see?” Louis gives his chair an annoyed kick, and Harry wilts again. “But no, we’re definitely not close enough for me to ask her for a favor like backing out of a  _ Zap! _ interview.” 

“Okay, well,” Liam soldiers on, undeterred, “Rita’s shagging your flatmate.” He glares pointedly to Louis. Harry chokes. “We saw those photos of the AMS party.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Louis pounds Harry on the back while he wheezes, “but Nick’s gayer than a French-tucked patterned shirt.”

Liam looks blank. 

“Nevermind,” Louis says. “The point is, you’re not really going to put stock in pap shots from  _ The _ fucking  _ Sun _ , are you?” 

“Well,” Zayn falters because he makes a good point but plows on. “The curry debacle, then.” 

Harry flushes bright red, and Louis rolls his eyes. “Harold here forgot Liam’s lunch because he was, shall we say, preoccupied.” 

“Preoccupied,” Zayn echoes in a flat voice. 

“With my flatmate. In an empty meeting room. Do you want me to go into further detail? Because I can. They were quite loud. Did I mention Nick’s a bit arse-over-tits for Harry?” 

Harry flushes. “Is he really?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Liam coughs awkwardly. “But what about Zayn’s double order of biryani?” 

“Miss Edwards told me she also wanted some, but later said she’d forgotten and already eaten,” Louis explains. “So I told Mr. Malik that we accidentally had an extra portion.” 

Zayn feels dread building in his stomach, but he shoves it down to desperately ask, “But, my tablet?” It feels like grasping for straws. But it can’t all be a long line of coincidences; that’s impossible. Zayn cannot have just falsely accused his favorite assistant of something as ridiculous as playing matchmaker. 

“We, uh, had a bit of a mix up,” Harry chips in. “I accidentally grabbed it when I came down to see Louis and took it with me to the gym when I went to see Mr. Payne. I panicked and called Louis.”

“And I told you someone had reported a lost drawing tablet in the gym,” Louis finishes. “But not because we knew you would want to go retrieve it personally and we knew Mr. Payne was there, I swear. I just didn’t want to get Harry in trouble by saying what really happened.” 

“I,” Zayn sputters, “but—you—” He glances frantically at Liam. “This can’t all just be one huge accident.” 

“Serendipity,” Harry supplies helpfully but quails under Zayn’s sour look. 

“No,” Zayn bristles. “That’s absurd.” 

Liam places a calming hand on Zayn’s rigid shoulder. “Is it so absurd to think we might’ve been meant to meet, babe?” 

Zayn gentles under Liam’s touch in a way Louis has never seen in all his years working for the man. The perpetual tension in every line of Zayn’s body seems to seep away. Zayn’s eyes melt into something warm and sweet when he looks at Liam and covers Liam’s hand with his own. 

A new voice scoffs, “Oh, give me a fucking break.” 

Liam and Zayn jerk apart, and Louis jumps out of the way of the office door slamming open. Louis retreats to Harry’s side to avoid the blond whirlwind sweeping in. Perrie plants her hands on her hips and glares so menacingly that Louis wonders how Liam and Zayn haven’t disintegrated into ashes yet. 

“Perrie?” Liam blinks. “What’re you doing here?” 

“Making sure your dumb arse doesn’t think fucking serendipity,” she glowers at Harry, who ducks behind Louis, “got you pillocks together.” 

It starts to click together for Louis first. “You sent me the emails to change Mr. Malik’s meetings.” Zayn gave her senior level authorization in most departments of  _ Zap! _ so she could have as much creative license as possible for their upcoming issue. Or, in this case, so she could send schedule changes from the a generic company email address so Louis couldn’t distinguish where the orders came from. 

“Too easy, Tomlinson,” she dismisses. 

He frowns, miffed, but curiosity wins out. “What about Kacey Musgraves? She was so excited to interview with us despite her manic schedule.” 

“Jesy owed me a favor,” Perrie smirks.

Liam realizes aloud, “Kacey is signed under Jesy Nelson—” 

“Your best friend,” Zayn finishes dryly. He looks the least surprised by Perrie’s abrupt appearance. After spending  four years with the firecracker of a woman, Louis reckons that Zayn must’ve seen it all. 

“That’s right. And I promised Kacey a photoshoot and interview with Ellie in exchange.” 

Zayn scowls at the name of Perrie’s cousin, who works for  _ Vogue _ . “Gee, thanks, Pez.” 

“Don’t act like a grizzling baby.” Perrie rolls her eyes. “I got you Rita fucking Ora. Fair’s fair.” 

“How’d you manage  _ that _ in such a small time frame?” Louis asks, intrigued. 

She gives him a puzzled look. “I asked your flatmate. You do know that Nick Grimshaw is, like, best mates with her, right? She’d do anything for him.”

“Huh.” Maybe Louis should stop zoning out to think about footie or Eleanor when Nick opens his mouth to talk. 

“See!” Liam exclaims triumphantly. “We were close.” 

“Best mates and shagging are very different,” Louis rebuffs. 

“The point is,” Perrie interrupts loudly so all eyes return to her, “you two needed to get laid badly,” she looks pointedly at Liam and Zayn, who blush and make a cross face respectively. “You two getting proper lives,” she nods to Harry and Louis, “was just a nice bonus.” She frowns at Liam and Zayn’s intertwined hands. “Actually liking each other for things besides your pricks wasn’t part of the plan, but I think I can work around it.” 

“I think so too,” Liam agrees, leaning into Zayn’s shoulder. 

“But,” Zayn frowns and turns to look at Harry, “that still doesn’t explain what the hell you were confessing about earlier.” 

Harry’s face goes bright red. 

Louis cackles. “Do you want to tell them, Harold, or should I?” 

“Louis,” Harry whines, hiding behind his hands, “ _ don’t _ .” 

“Harry,” Liam says in his sternest voice. 

“Oh please, Mr. Payne,” Louis smirks, “you haven’t scared Haz since he found out you had a childhood fear of spoons.” 

“Louis!” Harry squeaks at the same time Liam snaps, “They’re the most suspicious silverware!” 

Zayn chokes back a snort of laughter but coughs quickly when Liam whips around to glare at him. “I completely agree,” Zayn says as seriously as he can, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Forks and knives are alright, but spoons are the bane of cutlery.” He pats Liam consolingly on the shoulder. 

Harry groans, mortified. “Louis, I can’t believe you.” 

Louis’ shark-like grin only widens. “Sorry, love, would you rather’ve me told them that you let Grimmy fuck you at your desk.” 

Zayn’s eyebrows arch. “You don’t even have a proper office. Your desk is at the end of a hallway.” 

“It was late at night, after hours. No one was around,” Harry mumbles. He looks at Perrie. “I guess now I know how he got the passcode to the front door.” 

“Didn’t think that’s what he was going to use it for,” Perrie admits. 

“Where was I?” Liam asks tentatively like he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer. 

Harry hides his face in Louis’ shoulder, but not enough to muffle, “In your office.” 

“Not something I ever needed to know. And no,” Liam turns to glare at Zayn, “we’re not ever doing that.” 

“Not anymore, I think you mean,” Zayn smirks. 

Louis grimaces, but Perrie beats him to the punchline. “Right, I think we can all agree everyone here is a horny motherfucker. I really don’t need to keep myself up at night wondering where in this very office anyone’s bare arse has been. God, why can’t any of you shag at home like regular people?” 

Zayn does a spot on impression of a cat that got the cream while the tips of Liam’s ears pink. 

“Because we’re never home,” Louis mutters under his breath before he can think about what a bad idea it is to utter that within a fifty kilometer radius of his employer. “Uh,” he winces at Zayn’s sharp look and Harry’s horrified expression, “I mean, we love it here? A proper second home, it is. Rent-free, too.” 

“The kid’s got a point,” Perrie cuts off Zayn before he can snarl out anything. Louis is pretty sure he’s older than her, but even he occasionally knows when not to push his luck. “Not that it’s an assistant’s place to say so,” she says in a cool tone that has Louis averting his gaze, “but that was the point of all this: to get you two to get your heads out of your arses. How you were living before, that wasn’t sustainable. You were both going to burn out by thirty. And then where would we all be?” 

Zayn harrumphs. “Like you wouldn’t love to see that.” 

“Oh, yes, I don’t give a flying fuck about you and yours,” Perrie snaps back. “I’d throw a fucking party and dance on your grave. But Payno doesn’t deserve that.” Her eyes soften when they find Liam. “You dragged me out of my rut after…after the engagement ended. That was my absolute rock bottom, and you kept me afloat.” 

“I didn’t do much,” Liam mumbles, ducking his head bashfully. 

“You did,” she insists. “So consider this,” she gestures between him and Zayn with a face, “me holding up my end of the bargain or whatever.” 

“Our friendship isn’t a transaction,” Liam protests. 

“It’s not,” Perrie agrees, “but I’m not doing this so I’m not in debt to you or something stupid. I’m doing it because you deserve to be happy. Even if it’s with the most annoying prick I know.” 

Louis looks more disgruntled at this slight than Zayn, who just rolls his eyes and figures she could’ve done a lot worse. 

Liam gets up to wrap Perrie up in a tight embrace. “Thanks, Pez.” 

“No problem, Payno,” she replies, pulling away with a quick kiss to his cheek. “Now, are you gonna let your poor terrified underlings go?” 

“Does this mean we’re not fired?” Harry pipes up hopefully. 

“I suppose not,” Zayn allows.

“As long as you keep your boyfriend at home,” Liam adds firmly. 

“I think Grimshaw would quite like that,” Louis leers at Harry, “being your kept boy.” 

“I guess he can’t say that to you about Eleanor without sounding like a sexist pig,” Harry ponders aloud. 

Zayn raises an eyebrow at Liam.  _ Is he always this weird? _

Liam just shrugs.  _ He’s said weirder. This is actually quite tame. _

“No,” Louis smirks, “he can’t say that about El because we didn’t get caught.” 

Liam’s lips twitch.  _ See, yours isn’t much better. _

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Everyone keeps their jobs, how about that?” Perrie interjects, clapping her hands together. 

“Er,” Harry scratches his cheek self-consciously, “does that mean this is a bad time to say I quit?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. We're nearly to the end hang tight! Rebloggable [here!](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/181905154865/youre-too-good-to-be-all-mine-chapters-45-wc)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaaa so I know this posting schedule really just went to shit. But we finally made it to the end! Thank you for being patient and bearing with my dumbass who somehow thought posting a WIP was a good idea even though there was literally no evidence for that assumption. 
> 
> I hope while reading this you all had a fraction of the fun I had writing it!
> 
> Thank you again to [Skye](https://twistofpayne.tumblr.com) for not letting me rush through this epilogue and forcing me to wrap up all the character storylines even when I wanted to just post the darn thing and move onto a new project.

Nick wakes up alone. Again. He knows before he even opens his eyes that the room is vacant, the bed cold. He can feel it in the thick quiet of the room. But he pats Harry’s side of the mattress anyway. Somehow his heavy heart still has room to sink even lower when his hand comes up empty. He twists his neck to see the sheets delicately mussed, like Harry inched glacially out of bed so as not to disturb Nick. Nick sighs through his nose, as loud as he can even though there’s no one around to hear.

He feels like the men he’s snuck out on in the past, with a raging hangover and not enough sunlight yet peeking through the blinds to help him stumble out of the stranger’s flat. He thought he would get used to Harry’s job and its unsavory hours. It figures he never gets a lazy morning lie in with the only person who Nick has ever fucked and wanted to stick around. It seems like some big cosmic joke.

It’s a bit gutting, and he briefly entertains the idea of getting a dog to cuddle in the morning. But Nick eventually heaves himself up. He’s had his allotted five minutes to wallow about his almost overwhelming feelings for his boyfriend. Time to start his day.

He smacks his lips thoughtfully. He could really go for a scone.

* * *

When Nick blearily stumbles through the doors of the bakery, past the _Crumb in! We’ve got all you knead!_ sign, Harry can already tell he hasn’t had nearly enough coffee. As per usual. He nods to the steaming cup of tea on Nick’s typical table and continues ringing up the woman at the till. Once she and her muffin have cheerily bounced off, Harry judges that Nick looks possibly awake enough for a proper greeting.

“Good morning, Nick,” Harry chirps. He bustles behind the counter to add more vegan lemon tarts to the display case.

Nick mumbles back something unintelligible.

Harry leaves him to it as some more of the morning rush filters through the entrance. After another fifteen minutes, Harry tries again. “Fancy a cinnamon bun?”

“Would rather have your buns,” Nick yawns.

That’s more like it. If Nick can already flirt terribly at—Harry checks the clock—half eight, then he’s well on his way to coming fully awake. “You had me and my buns last night,” Harry reminds him, leaning his forearms on the countertop. “Several times.”

Nick smirks as he drains his tea. “Why do you think I’m so bloody tired right now?”

“Don’t look at me like it’s my fault. I’m not the one who insists on sex even though you don’t come home until two in the morning and I’ve got to get up in three hours.”

“We’re not going to devolve into some boring celibate couple!” Nick exclaims. “I’m not geriatric. Or a monk. I’m not about to appropriate someone else’s religion, Harold.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not even married yet,” Harry giggles, coming around from behind the register. “You have to at least let me put a ring on it before I agree to give up spontaneous, athletic sex. I just wish you didn’t choose the most awful hours.”

Nick chokes even though he already finished his tea. “I—yet?” he coughs, face burning. He’s spry, but not exactly a spring chicken anymore; Harry should know better than to shock his poor heart like this.

Harry doesn’t even have the grace to look abashed. He just thumps Nick on the back and pulls a chair up, close enough their knees knock and Nick can see the grey flecks in his bright eyes. “Yet.” He says it so evenly, so confidently, that Nick can’t even tell if the first _yet_ slipped out as an accident or not. Maybe it doesn’t matter because this second _yet_ is so deliberate Nick wants to shy away.

Nick swallows thickly. Before Harry, he’d never even seen someone for longer than five months, and that hadn’t been exclusive or serious. The fact that he and Harry have moved in together still makes him wake up in a cold sweat some nights. Lately, it’s less gripping terror about settling into a long-term relationship and more fear of royally fucking it up. That’s progress, he reckons. But Harry has never balked in the face of Nick’s uncertainty. He usually cups Nick’s face in one hand and strokes his thumb over Nick’s cheekbone until the worst of the anxiety passes.

“Yeah?” Harry asks now, endlessly patient and willing to move at Nick’s pace. “Yet?”

Nick’s mouth dries up.

Before he can scrounge up the proper words, the bakery doors bang open, chimes clanging, and a brash voice demands, “Hershel, where are me cupcakes?”

Alana pokes her head out from the back. “The boxes are ready to go, Mr. Styles. Shall I bring them up front?”

Harry sighs at the interruption and slumps forward to briefly rest his forehead against Nick’s shoulder. Nick presses an amused kiss to the shell of his ear.

Soon enough, Harry straightens up, dimple winking. “Yes, Alana, that’d be great. Thanks,” he calls back. He gets up to meet Louis at the front counter. Nick hangs back to center himself and make sure he won’t fall to pieces without Harry’s steady hands holding him together.

“Good morning, Lou.”

“Nothing good about it,” Louis whinges goodnaturedly. “Got to haul a hundred cupcakes into the office today, haven’t I?”

“Bet you wish you’d gotten out while you could, like me,” Harry grins, ringing Louis up as Alana and her sisters bring out the rest of the packaged sweets. “Missed your chance.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, rub it in, Styles, why don’t you?” Louis rummages in his wallet for his card. “Not all of us get to drop everything to chase their baking dreams and move in with their boyfriend like some kind of sappy rom-com.”

“I know,” Harry says in a decidedly soft voice, fond eyes drifting over Louis’ shoulder to rest on Nick.

Louis snaps his fingers in Harry’s unfocused face. “Oi, heart eyes front and center, Marcel.”

“That doesn’t even start with the same letter as my name,” Harry complains, tapping away at the screen to confirm the transaction. “Now you’re not even trying.”

“You just look like a Marcel,” Louis shrugs. “What can I say? It’s out of my hands. Now, are we still on for next month? I haven’t got time to pick up El and get the cake—”

“And biscuits and pavlova and—”

“And sweets,” Louis cuts him off before he spends the next hour listening to Harry list every type of meringue, “but I can send Oli or someone here if you like.”

“No, it’s fine. Me and Nick will be there anyway, so we’ll bring everything. Don’t worry about it.”

His face spasms a couple of times before Louis realizes aloud, “Ah, you’re trying to wink at me, is that it?”

Harry pouts. “I’m a great winker. Right, Nick?”

Nick makes his way to them. “You’re abysmal, darling, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Louis says to see Harry sulk.

Nick rolls his eyes and leans over to press a mollifying kiss to Harry’s cheek while tugging at one of the cupcake boxes on the counter. Someone has taped it shut, securely keeping out Nick’s prying fingers. Probably Este, the only one of the sisters that takes Nick’s complaints about keeping his figure seriously. Danielle and Alana just laugh and send leftover sweets home with Harry at the end of the day.

Louis bats Nick’s hand away with a glare. “Oi, those are for the office, you fuckin’ thief. Get Haz to make you something instead of nicking all mine!”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“Control your monster,” Louis complains to Harry, hunching protectively over the pink cardboard box.

“I’ve been experimenting for the party, so I’ll bring home some stuff you can try,” Harry promises Nick, who perks up.

“Your anniversary party, innit?” Nick looks at Louis. “Planning anything extra special? You finally gonna reveal to El you’re pregnant?” He playfully elbows Louis, who scowls. “She’ll be delighted. Is it a boy or a girl, Tomlinson?”

“First, gender reveal parties are dumb,” Louis huffs. “Second, shut the fuck up, Grimmy.”

“Do I get to be godfather?”

“No.”

“Ha, I knew you were with child! I can’t wait to Tweet about this.”

Louis rolls his eyes and doesn’t deign that with a response.

* * *

“And finally, I just want to thank all of you,” Liam says, gesturing around the rented out ballroom with a flourish, “for making this happen. This past year couldn’t have been so successful without every single one of you. Congratulations, Kharim.” He nods to the artist of the hour, who tips his own glass in acknowledgement. “Here’s to many more successful albums to come.”

The room shifts collectively as music producers, execs, and everyone else on the team involved in Kharim’s latest record raises their drinks up with whoops, cheers, and applause.

Liam steps down from the podium with a sigh of relief under his breath. He tugs nervously at his collar, never quite at ease at these label functions. Even though he feels genuine pride and exuberance for Kharim in the wake of the successful launch—album breaking into the top thirty in no time and still climbing—Liam still can’t help glancing at his watch too often to be polite, counting down the minutes until he can slip out without being rude. He floats around different groups, drifting in and out of conversations. He tries not to gravitate too obviously towards the exit.

“Trying to bail already? They haven’t even cut the cake yet.”

Liam instantly turns away from the door and towards the familiar voice, drawn in effortlessly. “Zayn,” he grins, leaning in for a quick kiss. He lets his hand cup Zayn’s neck then fall comfortably to his hip. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Always try to make time for you,” Zayn shrugs easily. He snags a flute of something expensive and bubbly from a passing waiter with a tray.

Liam tries not to let his smile get too dopey at that. “I know.”

Despite probably all but flying from his last meeting, Zayn doesn’t look the least bit harried or unkept. His dark suit has fine embroidery that shimmers under the light. The elegant but understated patterns take a moment to notice, sleek lines and crisp shapes not showing up until Zayn shifts in just the right way. His slick hair has stray pieces that somehow look deliberate, artfully tousled instead of straggly. Some days, Liam can almost wrap his head around how someone like Zayn has fallen for someone like Liam, but today is not one of those days.

Mentally shaking himself, Liam teases, “I hardly recognize you without your shadow.”

“Tomlinson?”

Liam rolls his eyes at how Zayn still feigns polite disinterest for his favorite employee. “Yes, Louis. He’s not here; you can stop pretending you don’t know his name.”

“I know his name,” Zayn sniffs. “He was my best assistant. Couldn’t get anything done without him. But now that I’ve promoted him, I can’t force him to tag along with me to all these events.”

“You’re still his superior,” Liam points out. “You could.”

“He has the night off,” Zayn insists.

“Because you gave it to him,” Liam tries not to smile. “Because you know it’s his anniversary with his girlfriend.”

“Perrie may have mentioned that.” Zayn takes a cool sip from his glass.

“We picked out their gift ages ago.” Liam grins and nudges Zayn with a shoulder. “Just admit you care about the poor lad.”

“I will do no such thing. Thanks to him, I have to deal with the dreadful new assistant. She tried to give me kombucha today, Liam. _Kombucha_. Do I look like someone who wants yeast in their tea?”

“If I say yes, will you make me sleep in the guest room?”

Zayn levels Liam with an unimpressed look. “Very funny, Payne.”

Liam grins. “I know what you mean though. Since Harry left, I’ve been through three different assistants. The last one nearly cried when I told her I had to let her go.”

“Cake, boys?” Perrie chimes in, offering a couple plates laden with decadent slices.

“Thank you.” Liam takes a corner piece while Zayn gets a bit of the icing spelling out Kharim’s album name.

“Fuck,” Zayn mumbles around the first bite, “you let Harry go for the greater good because this is fucking delicious. I don’t care if you have to go through a hundred assistants, you need to let the man pursue his baking aspirations.”

“He’s got a point,” Perrie adds, somehow licking her fork clean without smearing her lipstick.

Liam frowns. “But I miss him.”

“Yeah, well,” Perrie dives into the cake once more, “I’ll miss this buttercream frosting more.”

“Seconded,” Zayn says.

“Never thought I’d see the day you two agreed on something,” Liam teases before his brain can catch up with his mouth and remind him that maybe he shouldn’t fucking bring up the messy broken off engagement that Perrie had taken a year to recover from. Liam holds his breath, eyes wide as he fights the urge to clap a hand over his traitorous mouth.

But Perrie just hums contemplatively at that, fork sticking out of her mouth. Finally, she shrugs. “Me neither.”

“A lot of things happened that I didn’t think would after the engagement,” Zayn admits in a quiet voice.

Tension defused, Liam reaches for his hand. “I know what you mean.”

Perrie pretends to gag and stabs her fork towards them accusingly. “You two are so gross. Go be disgustingly cute somewhere else before I vom.”

“I was talking about getting almost seven hours of sleep last night despite this one’s horrendous snoring. I don’t know what Liam’s on about,” Zayn deadpans, dropping Liam’s hand to continue nibbling at his cake.

Perrie laughs so hard at Liam’s pout that people start to peer over at them. But this time around, Liam feels infinitely more comfortable with everyone’s eyes on him. Perrie wheezes at his side. Zayn doesn’t look one bit remorseful. And Liam could close his eyes and bask in the warmth pooling in his chest.

* * *

Eleanor isn’t a backwards-looking person. People told her that uni would be the best years of her life. Sure, she enjoyed it—met girls she tries to meet up for brunch every now and then, took a fascinating class on Himalayan Buddhism she still thinks about sometimes, got a business degree that she doesn’t use much these days. But she isn’t one to reminisce over a cuppa about that cute boy she should’ve plucked up the courage to flirt with or that job interview she shouldn’t have woken up late for. To be fair, she’s been with the same boy since she was nineteen and somehow landed her dream job, but that’s beside the point.

The point is Eleanor likes to keep her gaze fixed firmly on the future. And right now her future doesn’t contain nearly enough trashy telly, junk food, or cozy trackie bottoms. Preferably with Louis cuddled beside her, but that can be negotiated. Perhaps she can somehow pry Nick away from Harry long enough for him to come over. He’s vaguely Louis-shaped. Maybe she can convince Nick to get a dog she can borrow.

“Louis,” she tries for the umpteenth time, tugging at the tight choker they’ve squeezed her in. They swear it’s all the rage in Paris, but, unlike the French apparently, Eleanor rather enjoys breathing. “I swear I’m completely fine staying in tomorrow. Any reservations or whatever that you’ve made, you can toss out and just come over. I really wouldn’t mind just a lazy lie in for this year.”

“But I’ve already made plans, El,” comes Louis’ plaintive voice over the phone.

“So’ve I,” she counters. “With a pint of mint choc ice cream and my bed. You could join us if you want.”

“Magnanimous of you,” Louis deadpans.

Eleanor giggles. “I thought so too.”

“But seriously, I really think you’ll like tomorrow evening. C’mon, we can stay in any other night,” Louis wheedles.

“I thought anniversaries were supposed to be all about what the girl wanted,” she complains goodnaturedly. “Figures I’ve got the only boy in London who gives a shit about his seven year anniversary.”

“You really know how to pick ‘em, what can I say?”

Eleanor rolls her eyes, but smiles anyway. “I suppose I do.”

“Does this mean you’ll go out with me?”

“Can I wear heels less than six inches?”

“You can wear your fucking bathrobe if you want, love.”

“You’re gonna regret saying that when we show up to whatever posh place you’ve got in mind and we get kicked out because I’ve got on my fuzzy bunny slippers.”

“First of all, those are my slippers that you stole because you’re a bloody thief,” Louis sniffs. “Secondly, you’d still be the classiest person in the room.”

“I’m so glad we’re still in that phase where you have to compliment me no matter what.”

“So I’ll pick you up at seven?”

Eleanor might have continued to make Louis work for it, but her PA gives her a stern look and pointedly holds up her next outfit. “It’s a date.”

* * *

“So,” Louis draws out the word, stopping just before the door that leads to the roof.

“So,” Eleanor echoes.

“I don’t suppose you remember when we got engaged?”

She blinks and asks in a mock-innocent voice, “We’re engaged? You mean this,” she holds up and wiggles her ring, “didn’t just magically appear on my finger all those years ago? I can’t wait to tell my mum.”

Louis huffs. “Cheeky one tonight, aren’t you?”

“I like to keep you on your toes. Can’t have you getting complacent in your old age.”

“We’re the same—never mind. What I’m _trying_ to say is that I never gave you a proper engagement party and all that.”

Eleanor’s face softens, and she reaches out for him. “Louis, I didn’t need a fancy do to know that I was going to marry you.” And she doesn’t know how to make it sound more genuine than a cliché platitude because it’s the truth.

She still remembers Louis sinking down onto one knee. How his hands shook while slipping the simple silver band on, but how hers trembled more. How he flushed red and admitted it wasn’t the ring he wanted to give, not nearly as beautiful as the ring she deserved. But she was it for him, and he wanted her to have _something_ to remember that by until he got his shit together. She had to cut off his nervous rambling with a frantic kiss, arms flung around his neck, and nearly sent them both sprawling to the ground.

Eleanor shakes her head quickly. That earnest, wide-eyed boy shimmers and melts away to the man she has hurled her worst at like javelins only to have him still kiss her mascara-smeared cheeks before bed. “I didn’t need one then,” she leans in for a chaste kiss. She murmurs, “And I still don’t need one now to know I am going to marry you,” against his lips.

Eleanor leans back and automatically reaches for her chest. She feels the first ring sitting warm against her skin on the delicate chain she has tucked beneath her shirt. The cheap metal has gone a bit misshapen over the years, nearly worn through in the places she used to rub with nerves for good luck: before a big exam, when rent was due before Louis’ paycheck had come in, after her nan fell ill.

“So, then,” Louis squints, “is this a bad time to tell you I may or may not have planned you an engagement party?”

Eleanor’s jaw drops. “Louis Tomlinson,” she shakes her head disbelievingly as he twists open the door handle, “you did not.”

“Oh, but, darling, he did,” smirks Nick Grimshaw just before the rooftop explodes with shouts of, “Surprise!”

Someone flicks on the lights, Harry unfurls a massive banner that reads _Lou and El’s (very belated) engagement celebration!_ in his wonky handwriting, and confetti showers down. Eleanor laughs in delight when Nick throws a handful of hundreds-and-thousands in Louis’ spluttering face. He cackles and takes off to hide behind Harry before Louis can do more than curse.

Harry frowns at the rainbow sugar pieces littering the ground. “When you asked me where I kept those, I thought it was because you were gonna help me decorate.”

“It was for a good cause?” Nick tries, dropping a swift kiss on Harry’s cheek before ducking down like Louis and Eleanor can’t see him crouching _right there_.

It’s so ridiculous, and the rooftop is so packed with their friends and family, that Eleanor can do little more than clap her hands over her mouth to stifle her giggles and try to take it all in.

* * *

“What does Haz think I am, some posh twat?” Louis complains. He runs a hand through his hair, mussed from chasing Nick around, and prods at an intricately piped rose that looks far more flower-like than a buttercream has the right to.

“I think it’s nice,” Eleanor says, swatting his hand away. “Nick mentioned Harry’d gone a bit mad in the kitchen for this, but I didn’t think he meant,” she leans down to inspect, “gold-leaf-on-rose-macarons mad.” She takes out her phone to properly immortalize Harry’s hand-rolled, pistachio-dipped cannolis on Snapchat for 24 hours. _Perks of having a baker mate_ , she captions it, tongue stuck in concentration out while she types. Louis rolls his eyes but dutifully helps her pick out a filter and appropriate emojis anyway. They continue to wander down the dessert line, and even Louis seems grudgingly impressed by the Eiffel Tower made out of meringue.

“Look.” She points past the mocha macarons to a shiny chocolate sphere sat on a sleek plate.

“What’s that?” Louis sounds less grumpy now that he’s split a cupcake with her.

“I think…” She peers into a gently steaming cup beside the sweet. “Aha.” She picks it up and drizzles the hot raspberry sauce over the chocolate dome until the chocolate exterior cracks and melts away to reveal a delicately layered cake inside.

Louis makes a face, mutter something under his breath that sound suspiciously like “Harry, you extra bitch,” but spoons some of the sponge into his mouth anyway. “It’s alright, I guess,” he reluctantly relents, sneaking his fork back in for another bite.

“Then get your own, twat,” Eleanor huffs, parrying his fork with her own with more dexterity than Louis was expecting from someone who can’t even use chopsticks properly.

Louis pouts spectacularly, but she doesn’t cave. “I thought this relationship was supposed to be a cooperative partnership.”

“It is,” Eleanor agrees sagely. “But when Haz makes me break my diet, all bets are off. Sorry, love.”

“I’m dating a heartless monster.”

“This heartless monster let you wear braces and bright red trousers when we first started dating,” she reminds him, “so don’t even try it, Tomlinson.”

“I suppose I’ve stuck with you some good reasons.” Louis sighs theatrically. He tugs her close and enjoying the way she fits against him, familiar and comforting.

“Well, I’m only with you for your dick, so I don’t know what sappy shit you’re on about.”

Louis grins into her hair and feels lighter than he has for a long time.

* * *

“It’s not a party without pressies,” Stan declares, thrusting his glass in the air and sloshing everyone around him with beer.

While Sandy and Josh grimace, Calvin nods emphatically. “Go on, then. Open them.”

“We don’t even have a proper wedding date, and we don’t have a house,” Eleanor points out. “I don’t know what on Earth you lot could’ve gotten us.”

“That’s the point of opening them, isn’t it?” Bebe grabs the first box and grandly plops it in front of her with a flourish and a little curtsey. Harry corrals Louis into standing at the head of the presents table with Eleanor as their friends look on.

Eleanor looks for help from Louis, who just shrugs and shakes the ribbon-wrapped box close to his ear. “Sounds small. Reckon it’s a puppy?”

To Eleanor’s relief, no one has gotten them a puppy. But they do now have a lot more sex toys than they did before. By the third dildo, someone finally gets the bright idea to usher Louis’ little sisters away with the promise of sweets. “You all are either really kinky,” Eleanor says and she thumbs through _69 Sex Positions to Rediscover the Spark_ , “or think me and Louis have been having awful sex for years.” Louis scowls and chucks the set of handcuffs he’s just unwrapped at Oli’s head.

Oli ducks, and Louis flips him off while Eleanor moves onto the next box. She frowns when she gets it open. “Hmm, on second thought, the blindfolds are pretty useful compared to this.”

Louis peers into the box over her shoulder. His face scrunches up. “What the hell does Grimmy think we’re going to do with…”

Eleanor shrugs and pokes inside the box a bit. “I’d rather not know, to be honest. Put the lid back on, yeah?”

Harry tries to sneak a glance over Eleanor’s shoulder, but she elbows the nosy bugger away while Louis closes the box and firmly stuffs it under the table.

* * *

About halfway through, Louis fishes a simple envelope from the pile. He quickly passes it off to Eleanor when Nile calls him over to say goodbye. He has to rush off to some bigwig production party, but not before he claps Louis on the back and wishes him congratulations. “She’s a good one,” he says approvingly. “Very lovely girl. Heart of gold, that one.”

“I know,” Louis replies, chest ballooning tight with how much he means it. He walks Nile to the door then returns to find Eleanor frowning down at something in her hands. “El?”

“Louis.” Eleanor’s voice sounds strange, tight and almost squeaky. “Louis, come look at this.”

“What’s it?”

She holds up a jangling set of—

“Are those car keys?”

She nods. “They fell out of the envelope with this.” She hands over the paper in her fingers, eyebrows still scrunched together in confusion.

The cardstock feels silky smooth under Louis’ fingers as he eyes the elegant script that he almost doesn’t recognize as Zayn’s. He’s much more used to Zayn’s hasty scrawl, an odd mix of bullet points and dashed reminders, arrows and doodled concepts. But the card in Louis’ hand has no bullet points or cartoons of Zayn’s hairless cat dueling his bearded dragon with light sabers. The words don’t even run together like Zayn’s hand couldn’t keep up with his whirring brain. Instead, each sentence reads deliberate and precise.

_To Louis and Eleanor,_

_Hope you enjoy this model. It got very good reviews. I have arranged for the dealership to hold it until you’re free to pick it up. When you go, mention my name and everything will be taken care of._

_Also, apparently, the seat warmers are wicked._

_Best wishes._

It doesn’t have Zayn’s loopy signature, but Louis doesn’t need it. His boss got him a fucking car, and he needs a Goddamn second, so of course Nick saunters over.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Nick comments, sipping his rosé. He nods to the card in Louis’ hand. “What’s that?” Louis wordlessly hands it over. Nick whistles appreciatively when he finishes reading. “Who knew your crazy boss had a heart after all, eh, Tomlinson?”

“Shut it, Nick.”

* * *

“Is it working, Niall?”

“I dunno. I think so.”

“Hi, my loves!” A grainy Hailee steps back from the camera, settles onto the couch centered on the screen, and waves. “If you’re seeing this, then I haven’t married a completely useless lump.”

“Hey!” comes Niall’s voice from behind the camera, which shakes a bit as he shuffles around.

“Niall, it’s fine. Get over here,” she beckons, “so the people can see your lovely face!”

“‘The people’?” comes his disgruntled reply. “I thought this was for Eleanor and Louis?”

“Er, I’m not sure,” Hailee admits sheepishly, scratching her head. “Harry’s email was sorta vague.”

“Sounds about right.” Niall finally enters the screen, sitting beside Hailee and resting an arm on the back of the couch behind her. “God, we’re going to have to cut out this whole bit, aren’t we? Do you think Haz will if we ask him to?”

“Harry signs off on his text messages,” Hailee points out dubiously. “Like, if he doesn’t realize we have his number in our phones by now, I’m not sure how much I trust him to edit together footage.”

“Fair enough,” Niall concedes.

Offscreen, Harry whines in protest, “ _Heeeeey_ ,” while Nick cackles.

“Oh well,” she shrugs and turns to the camera. “Louis and El, I know we haven’t known each other long, but we’ve loved getting to know you these past months. Which means when Harry asked us to give you married couples advice, how could we resist?”

* * *

Eleanor doesn’t know when it starts to shift. She doesn’t know if it’s a single moment, between Louis ripping tissue paper off the baby onesie and demanding, “Okay, which one of you fuckers bought _this_ ?” and Doris asking Jay in a whisper why they’re having a party because aren’t Eleanor and Louis are already married? Or maybe it’s a gradual thing from the moment they stepped onto the roof and Eleanor could hardly breathe for all the well wishes and cheeky winks and _expectations_ —for a wedding date, a due date.

But whatever the case, Eleanor suddenly feels sick. She knows she’ll feel terrible about it later, but she turns away from Hailee on screen explaining that the secret to a healthy, long-lasting, and successful marriage is to kill spiders together and then destress with facemasks.

“Need more wine,” she mutters to Louis before quickly weaseling her way out of the crowd to the refreshments in the back. Everyone is so busy chuckling at Niall trying to go on about the marital merits of golf that no one notices she stumbles and catches her hip on the tables. The ice goose sculpture has half melted by now, the food mostly gone, and only dregs remaining in the punch bowl. Even away from everyone, she can’t seem to catch her breath. She tries to lean on the table a bit, scrunching up the flimsy tablecloth in her hands and counting the angry pulses in her throbbing hip.

“Eleanor?”

She squeezes the tablecloth once for strength, forces her numb cheeks to twitch into a smile, and turns around. “Hi, Mum.”

“You alright, dear? You look a bit pale.”

“Fine, yeah. Just, uh, parched. Looking for a bit of water.”

“You sure?” Her mum moves forward to rest a cool hand on Eleanor’s forehead. “You feel a bit warm.”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. Been a bit ill lately,” Eleanor invents wildly.

“Ill,” her mum says, eyebrows quirked, “or something else?”

“Er,” Eleanor trails off, not quite sure what she’s getting at.

“You know,” her mum says breezily, “I remember feeling a little sick when I was first pregnant with you. Thought I had a stomach flu for the longest time.”

“I— _oh_! No, Mum, it’s not that.” Much to her annoyance, Eleanor feels her face burn with embarrassment, which only looks incriminating. “Definitely not.”

“If you’re certain,” her mum says disbelievingly. “I’m just a phone call away, you know. If you need to talk about anything. First mum jitters or whatnot.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Eleanor says weakly, giving up the conversation as a lost cause. As soon as her mum moves on with a knowing smirk, Eleanor purses her lips to muffle a groan. Just what she needs, her mum getting on her about her nonexistent grandchild. She’s never been secretive, her mum, about wanting grandbabies to spoil. And Eleanor’s always promised her that she would get a little one when the time was right. Except, Eleanor’s edging closer and closer towards thirty now, and life hasn’t let up for one second. Louis still runs around like a chicken with its head chopped off more often than not, and Eleanor often has to bounce all over London for photoshoots and fashion weeks and meetings.

Rather than try to contemplate how a baby—a teeny tiny human that needs constant care and attention and love—will ever fit into that, Eleanor turns away from where everyone is dispersing after the end of Niall and Hailee’s video message. She sneaks over to a corner and finds the emergency stairwell open. She eases the door quietly behind her so as not to draw any attention. It squeaks shuts, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

She turns around. The stairwell looks bleak under the harsh lights, washed out and barren except for a few dust bunnies on the dingy floor. She shuffles over to the first stair and sinks down, leaning against the wall and hanging onto the cold handrail. She closes her eyes, breathes, and tries not to dwell on anything except the prickly stucco of the wall against her temple. It’s not comfortable. Half her bum numbs because of the way she’s leaned, and the other half is freezing as a draft whistles through. Her posture is shot to shit, and her knees twinge with the way she has them tucked under her. But she doesn’t think she could get up if she tried. She feels weighed down, like everyone’s comments throughout the night have piled up on her shoulders until her legs gave out. She claws at her chest, a low hum of panic clogging her throat until her fingers wrap around the ring dangling from her neck. It’s warm in her palm, a circle of heat that combats the cold creeping in everywhere else.

Abruptly, her shoulders and back get enveloped by a new warmth. Eleanor blinks, looks down at the coat covering her and looks up to see—

“Nick?”

“Hiya, love.” He looks concerned but sits on the stair beside her. Not too close, stays on his own side of the stairway to give her breathing room but still close enough to touch. “Alright?”

“Fine,” Eleanor says dully, automatically.

“You sure about that, El bell?”

She pulls his coat tighter around her. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “Dunno.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I’m not sure how,” she admits in a small voice, the kind of voice she doesn’t let herself use often.

“That’s alright, love,” Nick says softly. “Take your time, yeah?”

So she does. She listens to his even breathing, fiddles with the ring clasped in her hand, and finally chokes out, “I think I feel, um, a bit overwhelmed, like.”

“Just a bit?” Nick clarifies, like they aren’t stuck in a minging stairwell while Eleanor’s extravagant anniversary party goes on behind them.  

She nods. “A bit.”

“Okay, a good start.” Nick takes a moment. “I think I feel a bit overwhelmed too.”

“From what?” The words come easier now, her throat less rusty.

“From falling in love for the first time, I think.” Nick admits. She looks at him, and he shrugs helplessly. “Never done it before, have I? Not completely sure, but…”

“But you know,” she says firmly, straightening up and looking him in the eye. This, she can do—reassure Nick that the horribly confusing flutter that has taken residence in his chest since he laid eyes on Harry is supposed to be there. “When it happens, you know.” She shrugs helplessly.

“I know,” he agrees. Another pause, in which Eleanor’s lungs feel like they’re taking in more air.

“It’s scary, innit?”

“The scariest,” Nick concurs, then adds hopefully, “Give us a bit of a cuddle? Might make me feel better about it.”

She gives a tiny smile but opens her posture for the first time, turns towards him and relaxes the tense line of her shoulders. He scoots closer, wraps an arm around her. She can’t resist slumping into his steady chest, tucking her face into his neck.

“Is this stupid?” she asks, words muffled in his skin. “Feeling terrified even though everything is going right for once? That’s insane, innit?”

“‘Course not,” Nick says, rubbing her back. “Not at all.”

“I feel stupid. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, El. But, have you told Louis about any of this?”

Eleanor sniffles pitifully. “No.”

“Think he might want to know how you’re feeling,” Nick says just as the stairwell door creaks open.

* * *

“Eleanor?”

Eleanor blinks up at Nick as Louis and Harry’s silhouettes filter through the open door. “How the hell did you do that, Grimshaw?”

“Do what?” Nick stands up, cracks his back, and grumbles about maybe reconsidering Harry’s offer to do couple’s yoga.

“Time it so they got here right as you said that.”

Nick winks at her. “Never underestimate the gays, darling. We love a dramatic exit.”

Harry nods in agreement even though there’s no way he possibly knows what they’re talking about. Not to mention Eleanor’s pretty sure he’s not even gay. Before she can voice any of this, they whisk back outside to leave Eleanor and Louis alone. The stairwell door clangs shut with a ringing finality.

“Can I?” Louis nods towards the stair Eleanor has perched on.

“Yeah, I—” She bites her lip and scooches over, nervously tugs at the hem of her dress. “Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I…?” Louis offers out his hand halfway.

She reaches for him, focuses on the familiar comfort of their palms meeting, fingers knotting together. She studies his short, blunt nails and rubs a finger over his ring. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Running away from your nice party and hiding out here.”

“It’s alright. I know Harry can be dead annoying.”

She snorts, but some of the nerves about Louis thinking her ungrateful dissolve. “You leave poor Harry out of this. He baked us that massive cake and brought all the desserts.”

Louis sniffs, but magnanimously concedes, “Fine. But only for you, El.”

It makes her breath catch, the easy way he does that—accommodates her, reminds her she’s special. She smiles through it. “I always knew I was your favorite.”

“Dunno,” Louis smirks, “Grim makes a mean chicken parm.”

“Oh fuck off,” she laughs, finally scooting over to tuck against his side. His arm curls around her shoulders while hers wraps around his waist. It’s easy and instinctive, the brief kiss he brushes to the crown of her head and the way her cheek finds his shoulder.

“Yeah, I reckon you are my favorite,” Louis says quietly. “Always.”

“Well, Nick’s mine, but you’re a close second.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Thanks, love. Just for that, I think it’s only fair you give me a bit of a hint of why we’re freezing our bums off sitting here when we could be doing drunk karaoke with Ed.”

Eleanor likes how Louis does that, confronts their problems while keeping it lighthearted enough that she could laugh it off. But she thinks he deserves more than the tempting offer to yank him onstage and distract him with off-key singing. “Tonight’s just got me thinking about the future,” she admits.

“Yeah?” Louis’ voice gets honey-soft. “What about it? Taking a drive in our new ride? Or where we’re getting married? I still think I can talk you round to letting me rent out a baseball field. Think of it, El. Filled to the brim with everyone we love. Arctic Monkeys playing on the loudspeaker. ‘You may now kiss the bride’ on the jumbo screen.”

“I still think,” she counters, “you let Nick rope you into watching the Kardashians far too easily.”

“If it’s good enough for Kanye, it’s good enough for me.”

She pinches his side. “This definitely isn’t the end of this conversation. But we haven’t got time for all the reasons I don’t want to say ‘I do’ in a baseball diamond.”

“Sounds like I win then.”

“But I was actually not thinking about the wedding.”

“Oh.” Louis sounds puzzled.

“I was thinking more, like, you know, kids and stuff.”

“ _Oh_.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Real meaningful contribution to this conversation, Tommo.”

“I mean,” he huffs, frustrated at his inability to gather his thoughts properly, “yeah, of course. Kids, we’ve talked about it before. We said we wanted ‘em, yeah?”

“That’s just it, innit?” She bites her lip, almost lightheaded with nerves. “I don’t know anymore.” She’s never had the courage to say that aloud before. Not after seeing the way Louis’ eyes go soft around the edges when he talks about his siblings. Not after meeting the Tomlinson clan and finding the space they reserved just for her in their midst. Not after Louis has told her he wanted loads of little ones running around. When they were younger, it felt so easy to grin and nod right along with Louis’ grand dreams of their little family growing. She adored Louis’ siblings and couldn’t imagine ever not someday wanting that for herself.

But back then, she also thought they’d get married within a year or two. She thought Louis’d quit his crap job at that magazine company with the boss that treated him like shit. She was still considering graduate schooling for fear of not finding a career after uni. It feels like a lifetime ago, looking back on a stranger fumbling her way through life.

She hugs Louis tight, squeezes her eyes shut because somehow that makes it less scary to whisper, “Do you still love me?”

“Do I still—” Louis gapes incredulously, “Eleanor, of course, I still fucking love you. What the fuck kind of question—” He cuts himself off when he hears her first hitching sob. “El?”

“Sorry,” she chokes out, scrubbing at her face and probably fucking up her makeup to hell. “Sorry, give me a sec.”

“El, look at me,” Louis’ voice softens unbearably, and Eleanor refuses to budge.

She hates that some tiny part of her brain shivered with relief when Louis didn’t immediately push her away. Because she knows him, knows he loves her even as she voiced her fears. Logically, she knows he wouldn’t just up and leave her, not even over something as serious as kids. But it’s so much harder to believe that when a cruel sliver of her asks what she has to offer if not kids. If she doesn’t want to give Louis a family, then what’s stopping him from fucking off to find someone who will? And then she feels even worse for thinking that about him, even just for a split second only to shove it down, because her Louis isn’t like that. He isn’t, but she’s the one who conjured up that fear. She’s the one that promised him a family and then ripped the rug out from under him, and—

“El, please look at me.”

Once she can draw breath without feeling like her lungs might collapse, she does. She immediately wants to look away from his earnest face and the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows. But his hand comes up to cup her cheek, and she can’t bring herself to stray away from the warmth of his palm.

“It’s okay. Thank you for telling me. I want to talk more later, when you’re not—”

“A big weepy mess?” she offers.

“Not so overwhelmed, I was gonna say,” he corrects primly.

“You can say it,” she chuckles. “I’m a massive wreck.”

“I think you’ve just been sitting on this a long while,” Louis says, too perceptive for his own good. He pauses, visibly steels himself, and asks in a low voice, “Did you really think I wouldn’t love you anymore?”

“Of course not,” Eleanor bristles instinctively, then wilts. “Probably not. I don’t know, Louis. Kids, family, it’s really important to you.”

“You’re important to me too,” he says in a hurt voice.

She wants to scream with frustration at how she can’t do a single thing right without cocking it right up. She wants to rip her skin off her bones until she finds a shred of the maternal instinct or whatever’s supposed to be in her. Instead, she sucks in a needling breath and holds it in until she can dredge up some sort of forgiveness for herself. For not being mum material. For doubting the indelible ways Louis loves her. Finally, she feels ready to answer back, “You’re important to me too.” It doesn’t feel like nearly enough, but she figures they have time to fix that too.

“Kids or no, you, Eleanor Calder, are the love of my life.” He leans in to kiss the tip of her nose and press their foreheads together.

Eleanor closes her eyes and fiercely whispers back, “And you’re mine.”

It’s not a magic fix. It doesn’t give them an infallible map of how to navigate this new twist in their relationship. It doesn’t even make Eleanor’s numb backside feel better or remind Louis to drink water that night before they go to bed so he doesn’t wake up with a splitting headache the next day. Instead, as they sit there pressed together, it feels like a promise for better days to come. For Eleanor to eventually stutter through all the reasons she doesn’t feel ready for a kid, might not ever. For Louis to listen to her despite the disappointment lining his face. For Eleanor to hold him tightly and wipe away the tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.

* * *

“He knows how to throw a party, your mate,” Harry says for the third time since he and Nick have begun the short trek to their flat. They called it quits shortly after leaving Louis and Eleanor on the stairs because Harry had only made it a couple steps before vomiting into a potted plant. Nick considers himself lucky that Harry hadn’t pitched over the side of the building. “Louis, he sure knows—”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees, amused as Harry stumbles into his side. “He was a fabulous host a minute ago, and he still is. Don’t worry; I remember.” He rests a steadying hand on his utterly pissed boyfriend’s back. It’s a miracle Harry didn’t blow their Cool Gay facade back at the engagement do.

Harry nods seriously, eyes unfocused with wine. “Good lad, that Tommo. I wish I could,” Harry hiccups and blinks in surprise at the noise, “get to know him better.”

“His boss and your ex-boss love to cater from your bakery, so I’m pretty sure you see him at least biweekly.” Nick replies dryly, guiding Harry over pavement wrinkled by bulbous tree roots. The last thing he needs is Harry tripping and cracking his head open.

Harry perks up. “Oh yeah.”

Nick rolls his eyes. “C’mon, let’s get you home. Tomorrow we can try to arrange a tea with Louis and El.”

“Wow,” Harry’s eyes grow big as an owl’s in the dark, “can we really?”

Somehow, Nick successfully guides Harry to the stairs leading up to the front door of their flat. He has to let go of Harry for a moment to fumble for the key, and that’s his first mistake.

“Nick, Nick, look!”

“Hmm?” Nick squints into the dark alley Harry’s pointing at, well out of the pool of yellow street light spilling out to illuminate floaty dust motes.

“Do you see that?”

“Don’t see anything, Haz.” Nick returns to trying to finagle the sticky lock. “Let’s get you inside.”

“No, c’mon, right there. Here, I’ll show you.”

“Harry!” Nick nearly drops his key fob in his scramble after Harry. “Harry, I’m not joking around. People get murdered in places less disgusting than this. See, there’s an actual dumpster back here. Probably hiding a bloody mugger, Jesus Christ.” Nick stops dead, phone torch alighting on Harry sitting in the grimy alleyway with an equally grimy dog clutched in his arms. He doesn’t even want to think about what filthy dumpster juice is probably soaking into Harry’s jeans.

“Nick, isn’t she precious?” Harry scritches the dog’s belly and coos in delight when its leg begins to jiggle, tail wagging furiously. “Oh, can we keep her?”

“Keep—no, Jesus. Harry, get over here.” Nick inches forward, trying to devise a plan to extract Harry without getting near the creature and its big brown eyes, most likely made for luring unsuspecting victims into biting range. “It might have rabies or, like,” Nick waves his hands wildly, sending the torch light scattering, “mange or sommat.”

“She hasn’t got a collar or anything,” Harry says, completely ignoring Nick and smoothing his fingers over the short fur. It might’ve been white at some point, but now it’s mostly a murky grey like street runoff. “She’s so sweet, Nick. Look, she already likes you.”

Nick tries not to flinch when the dog wanders over to him and sniffs his shoes. She sits down at his feet, tail wagging, and lets out a happy little snort. “Might be someone’s lost pet,” Nick says, cautiously reaching out a hand for her to sniff. She forgoes tentativeness and shoves her muzzle into his palm. “She’s pretty friendly.”

“Does this mean we can take her in?”

“No,” Nick says firmly, purposefully avoiding Harry’s eyes so he doesn't cave. He didn’t drink nearly enough wine for this night to end with them adopting a scruffy street vagabond. “This means we should try to find her owners. They must be missing her terribly.”

“We can do that while we look after her,” Harry presses, moving forward and leaning down to swoop her into another hug. Her tail beats incessantly at his chest, whole bum waggling with the force of it. “We can’t let her sleep on the street.”

Nick sighs. “I suppose just one night can’t hurt. Don’t want to lose her if before trying to find her owners tomorrow.”

Harry beams so broadly Nick worries his dimples might pop off his face. The dog lets out another delighted snort, panting with excitement and giving them both a silly grin.

Nick rolls his eyes in an effort to hide the amused curl of his lips. “Yeah, yeah, c’mon, popstar. Go on and bring your little pig dog inside. When she wees on the floor and chews up your trainers, don’t blame me.”

* * *

“Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

Liam resists the urge to smoosh his face to the car window to peer out into the night whizzing by as Zayn drives them home. “Would it sound utterly crazy and maybe a bit creepy if I told you I think I just saw Harry?”

“Styles? What, like, in the backseat or something?” Zayn chuckles, but Liam catches his eyes surreptitiously flitting to the rearview mirror.

“Not in the car, you donut,” Liam huffs in exasperation, smacking him on the shoulder. “Jesus, this isn’t a horror movie. He’s not going to pop up with a knife and murder us.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think?” Zayn swats at Liam as best he can without taking his eyes off the road.

“I meant out on the street like a normal non-murder-y person. I think I saw Harry walking on the pavement with someone.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Daydreaming about your ex-assistant, Payne? Should I be jealous?”

Liam rolls his eyes and levels Zayn with his most unimpressed look. “Yes, Zayn, you absolutely should be. Last night when you made me come three times in a row, I was actually picturing Harry making me bagels.”

Zayn cackles. “I knew it! And here I was thinking my arse was the only hole you cared about.”

Liam chokes on his laugh and squawks, “Zayn!”

“You started this. Don’t get mad at me. In fact,” Zayn pouts, fighting back a smile, “I’m still a bit upset at you for thinking about another man’s bagels.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, very much so.”

Liam grabs Zayn’s hand off the gear shift and brushes his lips against Zayn’s knuckles. His voices goes low and sultry, all joking gone. “How can I make it up to you?”

Zayn thumbs at Liam’s bottom lip, dark eyes glinting in a way that has Liam’s stomach swooping. “I can think of a few things.”

The next morning—after they stumbled home and snogged against the door like teenagers; after Liam tripped getting out of his trousers and Zayn laughed naked on the bed; after Liam shut him up with his clever tongue and deft fingers; after Zayn rode Liam until neither of them could do much more than pant into each other’s mouths—Zayn jerks awake to the sound of the front door slamming shut.

Liam obnoxiously calls, “Honey, I’m home!”

Zayn groans to let Liam know he’s alive and to fuck off until the clock reads double digits. Unfortunately, that only brings Liam stomping into the room to rip open the curtains. It takes all of Zayn’s self control not to hiss, “It burns!” and curl away from the morning light like a vampire.

“I went to the shops, and I got breakfast.”

And, oh, that was actually rather considerate of him since Zayn knows he probably hasn’t got anything in his flat except weed and half a carton of milk. It’s a hazard of getting caught up in his latest project and forgetting to get groceries delivered. Although, in his defense, that’s happened less in recent months. Since Liam started luring Zayn out of the office before sunrise; since Zayn started locking up the office gym after midnight.

Nevertheless, they still have their moments when their give-and-take breaks down. When Zayn’s brain refuses to cooperate, so he takes his stress out on Liam. When Liam gets so caught up in his newest boyband that his tunnel-vision cuts Zayn out for days at a time. But for all that their fractured pieces can get jostled out of place, they always come back together. Zayn swallows his pride in order to apologize, and Liam makes sure Zayn doesn’t starve in his own flat.

Heartened by the thought of food and—he sniffs hopefully—coffee, Zayn cautiously peels the duvet away from his face to mumble, “I’m listening.”

“Great.” Mischief curls at the corner of Liam’s mouth. “I got bagels.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post [here](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/183156105915/youre-too-good-to-be-all-mine-chapters-55-ch-1)!


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